


Trust

by Versipellium



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Slavery, Slow Build, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-05-24 05:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6142804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Versipellium/pseuds/Versipellium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a fellow hunter expressed an interest in starting up a filming studio, Kate saw an opportunity. She snagged young Derek as his family's home burned to the ground and sold him.</p>
<p>Now, about ten years later, Derek finds himself back in Beacon Hills after an unexpected FBI raid frees him. After so many years having his flesh ripped apart for stock slasher footage and his body abused for obnoxiously low-budget supernatural themed BDSM, there is one thing Derek knows for sure. Trust is a trap.</p>
<p>But things are brewing in Beacon Hills. And, as much as he may hate it, a packless omega doesn't stand a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mutt

Most days Sheriff Stilinski liked his job. And then there were some days where he really didn’t. Today was definitely shaping up to be a bad one.

Stilinski started it off by spilling coffee on his uniform when one of his deputies sloppily rounded a corner. He swore and snatched a napkin from their glorified coffee station, trying to clean himself off. Before the Sheriff finished his vain attempt to get the stain out, a woman stormed into the station demanding her cheating husband be strung up by his balls. Said man was stumbling behind her, eyes wide and nostrils flared as she dragged him by the arm.

Stilinski grimaced and went over to intercept her. Plastering his best reassuring smile on, the Sheriff disconnected the woman’s vice like grip on her husband’s arm and left the flabbergasted man with Parrish. He strove to keep that same calming smile he’s spent a career working to get as he escorted her to their interrogation room. She glared daggers back at her husband all the way, right up until the door shut behind her. Then she whirled on her heel and started spitting out insults, each more absurd than the last. Stilinski ended up spending nearly an hour calming her down while she raged profanities.

By the time lunch came around her temper had cooled. And Stilinski could really use a drink.

As the woman retreated from the station, cheeks flushed with embarrassment as her rage ebbed and her reasoning started to trickle back, Stilinski ducked into his office and sank into his chair. He sat there for a long moment and just stared at the ceiling, ticking seconds off in his head while he forced himself to relax.

Heaving a large sigh, the Sheriff leaned forward and rubbed his temple with the pads of his hands. A burger would be great right about now, but thanks to an overly cautious son all he had waiting in the fridge for him was hummus, carrots, and yogurt. He knew Stiles meant well, but by God did he want a burger.

Deputy Clark pushed open his door and leaned in, “Sheriff?” 

Stilinski groaned and slumped forward, elbows on his desk. “Don’t tell me, another domestic disturbance?”

Clark gave an apologetic smile, “No sir, you have a call. An FBI agent.”

The Sheriff frowned, thoughts drifting to Agent McCall. Sitting up straighter, Stilinski pulled the phone off his desk and barked, “Stilinski.”

“Hello, Sheriff. This is Agent Mike Donnelly,” he paused for a moment, and when the Sheriff said nothing, jumped into it, “I have a witness who’s proving to be a bit difficult. So far all we’ve got is that he’s from Beacon Hills. I would really appreciate it if you could lend us a hand in identifying him.”

Stilinski leaned back in his chair and frowned. This was certainly unusual.

The detective in him clicked into gear. “How old is he? A current resident? He hasn’t given you anything else? No name? Family members? Friends?”

“He looks to be in his mid- to late twenties. Doubtful that he’s a current resident. And no, we have no info on family or friends. There’s a nickname he’s been called by our suspects, but it doesn’t seem very useful,” came the clipped response.

He would be the judge of that. “What is it?”

“Mutt.”

The Sheriff’s frown deepened. If he was involved in a gang they might be able to get something from that, but he suspected the agent probably already checked. Still, Stilinski dragged over a pad of paper and scribbled notes down. _Feds witness. Mike Donnelly. Mid/late 20s. From BH, nonresident. Mutt._

“Can I send you some photos, Sheriff?”

“Mmhmm,” Stilinski mumbled as he finished his note. He gave the agent his work email and then went ahead and started wiggling his mouse, willing his computer to come to life.

Eventually he got his email running and opened the message, downloading the attachments one by one while the agent waited on the line. The first photo opened slowly; he could swear his computer ran on molasses instead of electricity.

The man did look to be in his mid- to late twenties, possibly early thirties. The cop in him noticed the basics quickly: Caucasian male, brown hair, about six foot, brown eyes, probably around 170 pounds. The rest came next. High and pronounced cheekbones framed a sharp and pointed nose. Fully grown scruff covered a defined chin and sharp jaw. And his thick eyebrows were knit together in what was some pretty blatant distrust and rage. The man was looking away from the camera, glaring at the ground. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a gray shirt with “FBI” emblazoned on it in large block letters. _Not likely his,_ Stilinski thought.

The Sheriff was sure that the man in the image was a stranger, but there was a tug on his memory. Possibly a face he had seen in passing.

If he was from Beacon Hills he could try passing the photo around to his deputies. See if it rang any bells for them. The Sheriff flicked through the other photos, each taken at a different angle, but the man avoided looking at the camera in all of them.

“I don’t know him, but he does seem familiar. I can pass this off to my deputies if that’s alright. You don’t have any photos of him looking at the camera?” Stilinski said into the phone, the agent still waiting patiently on the line.

“That’d be helpful, we’d appreciate it. And no,” the Sheriff could hear the frown in the Agent Donnelly’s voice, “It’s the strangest thing. Every time we try to get him to look at the camera a blue light messes up the shot”

The Sheriff agreed: that was strange. Maybe some kind of malfunction? Or a trick the man was playing on them? Or maybe…

Stilinski sucked in a breath and stared back at the image on his computer screen. That sounded like something that could happen if his eyes were glowing.

Like a werewolf.

“I don’t suppose you could disclose whatever this case is to me?” Stilinski asked, trying for his best encouraging tone.

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the case at this time,” Agent Donnelly said, sounding as if he was reciting an often used line.

The Sheriff sighed and stared at the furious man on his screen. As if staring long and hard at the image could make it come alive and spill its secrets.

“Alright, Agent Donnelly,” Stilinski said, scribbling _Blue light_ with his other notes, “I’m going to send these around to my deputies and we’ll dig into it for you. I’ll let you know when I have something.”

The agent thanked him and hung up.

Stilinski sat back and stared at the computer screen for a long time. The more he stared, the more wolfish the man looked. _Stop playing tricks on yourself,_ he mentally scolded. Looking like a wolf didn’t have any bearing on whether or not you were one. At least, he didn’t _think_ so.

But that light thing sounded an awful lot like how Malia’s eyes could flash a startling blue.

The Sheriff shook his head and reached for his cell phone. He typed in a message to his son, _I might have something._

He didn’t press send. Not yet. The last thing Stiles needed was his father interrupting him while he was at school. Especially now that the whole Beast thing was all sorted out. The Sheriff gritted his teeth just thinking about it. Too many people had died. Far too many.

The Sheriff clicked print on two of the photos, resigning himself to a dinner conversation about werewolves instead of baseball.


	2. The Evasive Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An FBI raid leaves Derek confused and in custody.

_…from the window we could see the dome of the Reichstag looking as though it were illuminated by searchlights. Every now and again a burst of flame and a swirl of smoke blurred the outline._

Derek’s gut twisted unpleasantly and he stopped reading, staring at the page sightlessly for a moment as memories blurred his vision. He hadn’t been close enough to see his home burn, but he had seen the column of smoke twisting up and up, coming from the part of the woods his house was at. And a haunting red-orange glow had illuminated the source, portentous in all the worst ways.

He snapped the book shut, Vice-Chancellor von Papen’s description of watching the Reichstag fire weighing on him just a bit too much. 

Unsettling descriptions of fire aside, “The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich” had so far been an excellent book. He would have to thank Jeremy the next time he saw him. Out of all of his handlers, Jeremy was without a doubt his favorite. If Derek ever did get a chance to get out of here, he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to hurt the man.

It was a troubling element of his character. 

Derek sighed and leaned back, his bare back warming the plaster wall behind him. He tried to focus on his anger again, letting it center him and remind him of why he was here. This wasn’t his choice. It would _never_ be his choice. His handlers, as kind and interested in his well-being as they often seemed, would never let him go. And he _should_ hate them for that. He really should.

He felt a small burst of anger, but it was hardly enough. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the smoke column rising until it dispersed far above the tree line.

The werewolf climbed off of his cot and made the few steps over to his punching bag. The bag had been Fred’s idea. Derek didn’t like Fred, but he did appreciate the heavy bag. He had sprained his wrists on the thing far too many times in his first few months with it, but he liked to think he had the hang of it now.

He heard the first gunshot when he was leaning in close to the bag, working on his hooks.

Derek froze and tilted his head, focusing on his hearing. Upstairs, he heard Fred’s distinctive accent shouting for someone to get down. Another gunshot. Marla swore, her more feminine voice easy to distinguish from the other two handlers. Someone was running down the stairs, taking the steps so quickly that Derek half expected them to trip and fall. Shoes skidded around the corner at the base of the stairs. Feet running quickly down the hallway.

Whatever was happening, he didn’t trust that it was any good. Derek backed up to the far corner of his room, right next to his toilet. It was as far away from the door as he could possibly get.

One of his walls was made out of bars, an upgrade he’s had to live with ever since one of his failed escape attempts. But it allowed him to glare at whatever was running down the hallway. If it wanted to cause trouble, then he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

There for a moment and gone the next was Marla, pumping her legs as fast as she could. Derek’s eyebrows furrowed as he listened to her scamper farther away, the sound of a door slamming open when she reached the end of the hallway.

Was this a rival group of hunters? Derek’s chest constricted painfully at the thought. He at least knew what to expect from his handlers. There were no unknowns; they were quite predictable. And, outside of filming, they were reasonable and fair.

But another group of hunters? He didn’t know what to expect. Probably a wolfsbane bullet.

 _“Mutt!”_ came Vixen’s terrified whisper. She didn’t usually talk to him, and he was just fine with that, but now did seem to be an exception to the rules. “What’s going on? Did you see the runner?”

“It was Marla,” he whispered back. Vixen still had walls and a normal door on her room; she was better behaved and better rewarded.

“I don’t like th--” Another gunshot rang out and interrupted her. Derek dropped down into a protective crouch and stared through the bars into the hallway, hearing strained to listen to what was going on upstairs. There was a wet gurgling sound, followed by a gasp and a wheeze.

“Suspect down!” an unfamiliar voice shouted.

Derek froze. That didn’t sound like something a hunter would say.

“WE’RE DOWN HERE!!” Fox bellowed from further down the hallway, “DOWN HERE!!”

 _“Shut up!”_ Derek hissed at the newcomer. Fox hadn’t been here long enough to know that _nothing_ ever worked out for the better. Derek could forgive him for that, but he needed to keep his mouth _shut_. Whatever was happening upstairs, it was trouble.

But Fox ignored him. “PLEASE!!” he shouted, voice cracking, “Please help us!! We’re down here!”

Footsteps coming down the stairs. Two sets. Not as rushed as Marla, but still brisk.

“Over here!” Fox called out. Derek could hear him banging on his door.

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_ he wanted to shout, but he didn’t dare speak. Not when he could hear footsteps slowly working their way down the hallway.

And then they were in front of the bars of his room. One man and one woman, both with vests emblazoned with “FBI” in big, yellow letters and guns held out in front of them. The woman spotted him first and got her partner’s attention with a whispered, _“Donnelly!_ To the right.”

The man, Donnelly, made brief eye contact with him. Derek gave him his best death glare in response. “Stay with him.”

The woman nodded and stopped, glancing back down the hallway, gun at the ready.

Derek stayed crouched and tried to look as menacing as possible. Her gun didn’t have the faint odor of wolfsbane that always lingered on Fred’s guns. Derek was going to consider that promising. She could shoot him through the bars, but if those weren’t wolfsbane bullets then he could still put up a good fight.

She turned back to Derek and said in a tone that was probably meant to be reassuring, “We’re going to get you out of here, don’t worry.” She grabbed the padlock that held his barred door shut and turned it over in her hand with a frown.

“Please!” Fox wailed, and what sounded like his fist thumped on a door, “Help!”

Derek continued to glare at the woman, but he didn’t miss the sound of a doorknob turning down the hall, a lock catching, and then the sound of a door crashing open with what must have been an impressive force for a human.

Fox was sobbing in what sounded like relief when Donnelly’s voice drifted over, “Garry Dunbar?”

“Yes, oh God, yes! Please, you have to flick the switch on the wall. I can’t leave if you don’t. _Please!_ ” Fox pleaded in a rush.

Derek couldn’t know how Donnelly reacted, but he must have thought it was worth trying since Derek could hear the telltale slide of wood as of one of the baseboards lifted high enough to break the mountain ash barrier around Fox.

The woman gave a curious look to the switch right by Derek’s door. Derek knew it looked like an ordinary light switch. Technically, it was. A normal switch connected to normal wires. What was unusual was its function.

Derek tried to look uninterested in her scrutiny of the switch. He certainly didn’t want to let on how badly he wanted her to flick it. The werewolf didn’t care that his door was made of metal bars instead of wood. He didn’t care that it was locked with a chain and padlock instead of a normal deadbolt. The second she flicked that switch, he _would_ force his way out.

Another two sets of feet started quickly down the stairs. Two more men passed his room and headed down the hall to meet Fox and Donnelly. Both gave him a brief glance but didn’t stop.

“Davids, take him upstairs. Gonzalez, follow this hallway. Looks like Marla Curtis escaped out this way. Once you have him upstairs, get the chase started outside if it hasn’t already. Hendricks and I will finish clearing the basement.”

One set of feet hurried further down the hall, and another made its way a bit more slowly back his way. Derek snarled and snapped his teeth, instinct urging him on.

The woman gave him a sharp look, but turned her attention back to the steps coming towards them. It wasn’t just one set, there were two.

They came into sight: one of the men who had rushed down to meet Donnelly and a trembling Fox right behind him. Derek glared at the werefox as he passed, head turning to follow the young man. Fox first smiled when he caught Derek’s gaze. But when what he saw wasn’t the same relief that was bubbling out of Fox, his smile faltered. Fox’s gaze skittered away and then avoided him as the pair passed.

 _Idiot,_ Derek couldn’t help but think. 

Derek listened in as the man broke down another door in the basement. It was the editing and film storage room. Or at least, that’s what Derek figured it was. His handlers went in there frequently either together or by themselves, usually with a coffee in hand. It had all the vibes of a place of work.

There was a moment’s pause, then a shouted, “Clear!” before his steps moved closer. The woman hovering by his room shifted anxiously, looking every bit uncomfortable with not being right there with her colleague.

He paused outside of the room across from Derek’s, tried the doorknob, looked unsurprised when it was locked, then stepped back and gestured to the woman. She nodded and stepped up next to the door while he raised his foot and kicked it down. Derek watched, lips still curled in a snarl, as the woman stepped in and swiveled about, gun out and ready.

Derek knew that room only too well. It was their filming room. Right now it should be relatively bare; the last one to do a scene was Vixen and it had been a pretty straightforward masturbation scene. He was confident that there had been the typical werewolf spin the handlers always liked to include in their porn shooting, but he didn’t think there had been anything outrageous.

“Clear!” she enunciated as the pair stepped back out. The man, Donnelly, stopped and studied the padlock on his door. He looked back up to Derek and gave the same assurance his colleague had given, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here.” He gestured to the lock and added, “We’ll need a bolt cutter for this, hang tight.”

Derek narrowed his eyes. He didn’t need a bolt cutter, all they had to do was flick that damn switch and he would find a way. But he kept his mouth shut and crouched closer to the toilet. If necessary, he could probably rip the porcelain thing out and throw it at them.

The pair moved closer to the stairs, where they’d find Vixen and what Derek assumed to be a storage room. The handlers only typically went in there right before and right after a scene, carrying supplies from the shoot with them.

There was a wiggle of a doorknob, the sound of a lock catching, and then silence for a moment or two before the sound of wood splintering and the door crashing open echoed loudly through the basement.

There was another moment of silence before Derek heard the woman whisper, “Jesus…”

The scent of unease wafted down the hallway and caused Derek to shift uncomfortably. He was willing to bet they were in the storage room. The werewolf knew the items in that room rather intimately and didn’t care to dwell on them. Just the thought of some of them were making him nauseous.

The woman cleared her throat and Derek heard footsteps enter the room. He had never been in it, but he imagined there were plenty of places for someone to hide behind all of the weapons, sex toys, instruments of torture, and filming equipment. There were probably shelves of the stuff.

The footsteps carried slowly through the room, both sets echoing faintly. After a few seconds he heard the man shout, “Clear!” And then, not too long after that, the woman echoed, “Clear!”

And then the pair were out of the room and heading to the last room in the basement: Vixen’s.

Derek could hear her heartbeat, already beating furiously fast, suddenly jump to a rabbit’s pace. He was on his feet and at the bars of his room before he even realized he was moving.

“No!” he shouted, voice resounding down the hallway, when he heard them try to turn the knob on Vixen’s door. Derek heard at least one heartbeat spike in surprise, and he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t his own.

He should know better than to interfere. He really, _really_ should. But these two people were strangers. Unknowns. He had no idea how they operated or what their rules were. And he’d be damned if he didn’t try to do _something_ to help Vixen.

The man came back into view, eyes wide and brows lifted high. “Is there something you want to share with us?” he asked carefully.

Derek snarled and snapped his teeth, “If you hurt her, I’ll rip your throat out.”

A thoroughly empty threat with his handlers, as they had proven to him time and again. But these weren’t his handlers. Not even close.

If possible, Donnelly’s eyebrows rose even further. He glanced back to the padlock, then to Derek, and then pressed his lips into a grim line. “You’re safe now, we’re not here to hurt you,” he said quietly.

Derek glared angrily in response, absolutely confident that the man’s claim was far from the truth. His heartbeat may have been steady, but that didn’t mean jack shit. Hunters were expert liars. And if these hunters were going to play as FBI agents, then fine. But Derek wasn’t going to be tricked.

Inhaling harshly, Donnelly turned to head back down to Vixen’s room. Derek snarled and threw himself against his bars, feeling the push-back from the mountain ash as he got too close.

But he was powerless to stop anything. He heard the door break down and Vixen’s startled gasp. But the footsteps didn’t enter. Derek pressed fully into the bars, willing himself to somehow get through them. He needed to do something. Scenarios raced through his mind of what they were going to do to her. Just because he didn’t smell wolfsbane didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Wolfsbane was frustratingly difficult to smell.

“Hey, calm down, it’s okay, we’re not here to hurt you,” the woman’s voice carried gently through the basement.

Vixen’s shuddering breaths were the only response.

“I’m going to flick this switch. You can come out then, right? Neither of us are going to do anything to you, okay? I promise.” Her voice was calm and reassuring. _Like a siren luring her victim,_ Derek thought unhappily.

 _Don’t believe them, Vixen,_ he thought desperately.

But Vixen had always been better behaved than him. And when Derek heard the slide of wood indicating that her mountain ash barrier had broken, he also heard the tentative shuffle of feet leaving her room.

“You’re doing great. What’s your name?” This woman could voice over meditation videos; her voice was unfairly soothing.

“Vixen,” the other werewolf answered obediently.

“Do you have any other names?” she asked encouragingly. Derek could hear their steps retreating to the stairs, heading away from him as they spoke.

“My name is Vixen,” she answered, voice spiking in fear.

“The people who did this can’t ever hurt you again,” that same damn reassuring tone. The voices were becoming softer as they climbed the stairs. “What’s your real name?”

There was silence for a while, punctuated rapidly by Vixen’s too fast heartbeat. Derek didn’t think she’d answer until he heard a whispered, “Amanda…Amanda Murano.”

Derek closed his eyes in resignation and stepped back to the wall. _Stupid,_ he thought.

He stopped listening to their conversation as they retreated upstairs. Vixen… _Amanda_ , he thought to himself, feeling a little odd using her real name, was a lost cause. He couldn’t help her. Not like this. Not with hunters or FBI agents or whatever they were swarming around and him still locked in a mountain ash barrier. And not with her trusting the strangers so readily. It was a lost battle and he hadn’t even taken a swing yet.

There was a commotion upstairs and Derek willed himself to get out of his pity party and listen. Someone, he gathered it was a man named Gonzalez, had caught Marla.

Radios chattered with updates while Derek was left to stew. One of the suspects had died from his wounds. Derek wasn’t sure who. He could hear Fox talking with someone, answering mostly with, “I don’t know.” And, eventually, he caught Vixen mumbling her answers, most of which were, “I’m not allowed to talk about that.”

Derek stepped forward again and stood at his bars, trying to look as far down the hallway as he could. Donnelly had gone back upstairs. Possibly to find a bolt cutter. Or he was just going to leave him down here.

The werewolf wondered how long he would last without food. He had running water in his room, but eventually it too would get shut off. Then it would only be a matter of time before his body quit on him.

The thought caused him to growl and he slammed his fist against the bars.

Eventually he heard multiple sets of feet coming down the stairs. Donnelly and the man who had taken Fox upstairs came into view, the other man holding a large bolt cutter.

They stopped in front of his door and watched him warily. Derek gave them his best glare in response.

Donnelly sighed. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’ll let you out now, but I need you to promise not to attack us or try to run. Can you do that for me?”

 _No_ , was Derek’s immediate thought.

But he didn’t want to die here, locked in a cell with no way to get out or survive. After a few moments pause while he argued with himself, Derek finally gave them a small nod.

“Alright. Davids, go ahead.”

The other man, Davids, positioned the bolt cutters around his padlock and forced them closed. Derek listened to the satisfying snap of metal and clang as it fell to the ground. Davids pulled the chain off and swung open the barred door.

Derek stepped closer to the doorway but didn’t dare try to cross it.

Donnelly cocked his head and considered the werewolf before finally reaching over and flicking the switch by his door.

As soon as Derek heard the wood slide out of the way, he bolted.

The two men shouted in dismay and tried to grab at him as he barreled past them. He pulled out of their grasps and scrambled up the steps, taking them three at a time in a wolf’s run.

The ground floor was a whirlwind of activity and smells, causing Derek to halt in surprise for a split-second.

It was the first time in years that he had been out of the basement.

 _Go, go, go!_ he urged himself. He could worry about how quickly his world had expanded later.

“Stop him!!” a voice roared from the basement, rushed steps pounding up the stairs.

Derek dashed through the noise and confusion, trying to find the way out. Too many smells, too many people, too far from the exit. Derek was panicking, completely lost as he stumbled around the first floor and dodged around people.

Someone knocked his legs out from under him and Derek flew forward, landing on his arm and rolling.

He pushed himself up, adrenaline fueling his desperate run, but he felt a body tackle him back down to the floor.

The werewolf shoved them off and tried to scramble back up again, but another joined them. And another. But Derek was a werewolf, dammit, and he wasn’t about to be tackled down by humans. 

Especially when the first real chance at freedom he’s had in so very long was _right there_.

But then two more joined the dogpile and Derek could only manage to stumble a few feet at a time, their combined efforts holding him frustratingly back.

“Stop struggling!” one of them shouted.

Derek wasn’t about to do that.

He didn’t stop struggling until someone yelled, “Get clear!” The dogpile dispersed faster than Derek thought possible, followed immediately by a surge of electricity pulsing through him. His muscles seized up involuntarily and he couldn’t for the life of him make them move.

Being incapacitated by electricity was nothing new to Derek. It seemed to be a hunter favorite. But _damn_ if he still hated it. Derek’s eyes rolled back and he growled, trying his best to still appear menacing.

Donnelly’s voice rang in his ears, “If you don’t stop struggling, I _will_ tase you again!”

Derek grit his teeth, the effects of the shock wearing off. He could _smell_ the outside world. It had rained sometime earlier and the fresh scents were wafting into the room. _So close_ , Derek thought miserably.

But this wasn’t the first time he’d had fights with tasers. Maybe if he was an alpha…but no. He wasn’t even a beta. Just an omega. All it took was one taser to incapacitate him.

So long as Donnelly stood there at the ready with his taser, Derek wasn’t getting away.

* * *

That hadn’t been the last escape attempt Derek had pulled. Eventually they put him in an interrogation room, hands bound to the table with handcuffs, and left him there to stew.

Derek studied the handcuffs, wondering how long it would take for him to break them and if it would be short enough for them to not notice. It was strange, though. This did seem to be an actual FBI building. There was the FBI emblem all over the place and outside of the interrogation room the place was well lit with _windows_. He saw both Fox and Vixen go into rooms with windows, blinds blessedly open to let the sunlight in. There wasn’t a speck of mountain ash in the place and they had even given him a shirt. It felt weird on his shoulders, the weight an uncomfortable feeling after so many years without.

The slightest taste of hope tickled the back of his mind, but Derek fiercely pushed it back down.

Somehow this was a trap, he just had to figure it out.

* * *

_“Dude!_ So not fair!”

Scott laughed, a massive, lop-sided grin crinkling his cheeks and his eyes nearly shut with how far his smile stretched. Kira jogged over and gave him a high-five, an excited hop in her step at the successful trip that _she_ made. Not the kitsune guiding her, just _Kira_. Which, Stiles had to admit, was definitely a good thing. Way better than having an angry Japanese fox taking him down as if her lacrosse stick was a damn sword.

But as the only one in this little lacrosse practice quartet without any kind of supernatural powers, he should get at least _some_ kind of handicap. Like, say, a second or so to dodge a supernaturally fast trip. He hadn’t even seen it coming. One moment he was readying his shot and the next he was landing flat on his face.

Liam held out a hand for Stiles and the older teen grabbed it, scowling as he dragged himself up.

“Alright,” Scott said, his smile not quite so massive but definitely still there, “We should probably call it a day.”

Stiles grimaced. He wanted a goal; just five more minutes. But he knew Scott was right; they had already been out here an hour. He heaved a sigh and followed the trio off the field.

Tucking his lacrosse stick back into his bag, he picked up his phone and saw its light blink slowly, faithfully signaling a missed text or call or email or something. Stiles opened it and felt both a surge of excitement and worry at the words from his dad: _I might have something._

“Scott! Hold up,” Stiles said as his friend shouldered his bag and he called his dad. Scott gave him a querying look, but Stiles only held up a hand and listened to the ringtone. Kira and Liam both stopped what they were doing and also shot him questioning looks, though theirs were a bit less concerned and a touch more impatient.

“Hi Stiles,” his dad answered on the fourth ring, “You called at a good time, I’m on my way home. How was school?”

“It was fine,” Stiles answered, leaving out the part where he dozed off in math and woke up in a spectacular array of flailing limbs when Scott prodded him, “I got your text, what’s up?”

“Well, the FBI have this witness from Beacon Hills that they can’t identify. When they try to take a picture of him head-on, there’s this blue light that gets in their way. I thought it sounded like it might be some werewolf thing.”

That didn’t sound so bad. No dead people, just some blue lights. His concern faded and he huffed a relieved breath. Stiles picked up his bag and replied, “Could be. What’s he a witness for?” He lowered his phone and repeated to Scott, “False alarm, no dead people. Just a guy that might be a werewolf.”

His dad snorted. “The agent I talked to won’t say. Is Scott there? Invite him over, we’ll have Chinese.”

Now they were talking: a real life mystery. Stiles loved those. While he definitely didn’t want any more mass-murdering monsters coming through Beacon Hills, things had been a bit boring. He could go for some normal cop mystery.

Kira had already started walking back to her car, Scott not far behind her on his way to his bike. Stiles jogged to catch up. “Hey Scott,” Stiles huffed, “Chinese at my place?”

Scott gave him a lop-sided smile, “Sounds better than leftovers. My mom’s working late today.”

“Scott’s in,” Stiles said back into his phone. Liam jogged up to the pair, having followed Stiles. He was expecting a ride back in his Jeep.

“We’ll be there soon, I just have to drop Liam off first,” he told his dad.

“Invite him too,” the Sheriff responded cheerfully

Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes; they were going to invite everyone at school at this rate. “Liam, want to come?”

Liam shook his head and explained, “Mason’s coming over to play some games.”

And Stiles was certainly not going to get in the way of that. Ever since they got Mason back, Liam didn’t like letting his best friend out of his sight for too long. Was that touching? Yes. Stifling? Probably. Would Stiles do the same thing if he thought Scott had vanished and a middle-aged French man took his place? You bet. “Liam’s a no, Dad.”

The trio started back towards Stiles’ Jeep and Scott’s bike, Kira having already headed out.

“Alright then,” his dad said, “I’ll see you boys soon.”

* * *

His dad stubbornly insisted they finish eating, after many complaints from Stiles, before he pulled out the file he had started on their unidentified witness. And wasn’t that a weird thought: unidentified witness. It was usually unidentified body or unidentified murderer. To just have some guy sitting around with the FBI and refusing to give them his name was like a breath of fresh air.

Stiles had been reading his predictably vague fortune, _Land is always on the mind of a flying bird,_ when his dad finally laid the printed images out on the table.

Scott was saying something, but Stiles didn’t hear because damn if that man didn’t look like a much older and angrier version of Derek Hale.

Which was impossible. Because Derek Hale was dead. Along with almost all of the rest of his family. It had actually been all of his family for a brief period of time, but Peter Hale just didn’t know how to stay dead. He even outlasted the now dead ex-alpha he used to resurrect himself. Stiles thoughts drifted to Aiden, which then drifted to Lydia.

Maybe he should ask Lydia if she could tell if Derek Hale was still dead. Because the more Stiles stared at the picture on the table, the more convinced he was that he was looking at Derek Hale.

“Stiles?”

His dad’s voice broke through his thoughts and Stiles looked up to meet the half-cop, half-dad questioning look.

Stiles picked up one of the pictures and studied the man’s cheekbones and nose a moment longer before saying, “It could just be a crazy coincidence, but this guy looks just like Derek Hale.”


	3. Only the Alpha

Stiles tripped over the threshold of the FBI office’s front door and stumbled forward, hands flailing out to prevent his fall. Scott couldn’t help but huff in amusement as his best friend grabbed onto his dad’s jacket and yanked the Sheriff backwards.

“Stiles!” Mr. Stilinski hissed sharply, stepping awkwardly to keep his balance. Scott grabbed the back of Stiles’ hoodie to help his friend right himself. He could already see Mr. Stilinski rolling his eyes and probably questioning why he let himself get talked into bringing the duo.

“Sheriff Stilinski!” a voice called out before Stiles’ dad could say anything. Scott followed the shout to see a stout, balding man in a suit walking over. His smile was friendly and welcoming, but something about him gave off a sharp air of authority. Scott furrowed his eyebrows in concentration, trying to figure out what it was.

Before he could pinpoint it, the man had his hand outstretched and offered it to Mr. Stilinski, “Agent Mike Donnelly.” As the Sheriff shook it he continued, “Thanks for making the drive out, we really appreciate it.” He shot Stiles and Scott each a considering look before adding, “Friends of our witness?”

Stiles’ dad looked back to them. “Not exactly. This is my son and his friend. Stiles, Scott, this is the agent I mentioned.” He tilted his head and said, “I’d prefer to keep them in sight, if that’s alright.”

If the FBI agent was confused or annoyed, he didn’t show it. Scott did hear a slight click of the man’s teeth, but he wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“Well, follow me.” The man turned and started to head further into the building, leading the trio past the front desk and into a large, well-lit space filled with men and women working at their desks. They were all wearing an assortment of either suits or business casual and Scott couldn’t help but imagine his dad sitting at one of those desks. He sucked in a long breath, not at all prepared for the stab of resentment he felt.

Agent Donnelly’s clipped voice broke him out of his thoughts. “We’re currently holding him for assaulting officers, but unless we plan on actually trying him we’ll have to release him soon.” Scott’s already creased brow scrunched up even further. He thought Mr. Stilinski said this guy was a witness, not a criminal.

But he held his tongue, lips bending into a confused frown as the agent led them past the desks and towards a door. Agent Donnelly pushed it open and led the Sheriff in, pausing only when Stiles tried to follow. The agent stared at Stiles and frowned. “Perhaps your son and his friend should wait outside.”

The Sheriff paused and considered Stiles under some heavy creases in his forehead. Stiles jerked his head back and gave his dad a look of insulted innocence. “Dad!” Stiles defended, “We talked about this, remember? Me and Scott have a better chance of getting tall, dark, and angry to open up. C’mon, we didn’t come all this way to get left in some waiting area.”

Scott stepped up behind Stiles and added with earnest, talking to both sheriff and FBI agent, “Please. Let us help. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

Stiles’ dad gave a long suffering sigh and turned to Donnelly. “As much as I hate to admit it, I think they’re right.”

The agent’s eyebrows did knit together this time, but after a moment’s hesitation he gave a sharp nod and allowed the pair to follow them in. Scott grinned and gave him a nod of thanks, following Stiles who had already slipped in. Donnelly’s only reply was to purse his lips. 

Agent Donnelly shut the door behind the four of them, leaving them in a small, dimly lit room. The agent was staring at something at the wall to their right and Scott turned to follow his gaze. His breath caught and he froze mid-turn. There, on the other side of a pane of glass, was a _very_ angry man who was staring _right_ at him.

It was incredibly unsettling. Scott’s jaw dropped slightly, suddenly slack, as he took in the supposedly dead Hale. As wrong as it probably was, Scott couldn’t help but look for the similarities between this Hale and Peter. There was enough there to cause him to worry. But even Peter never glared at him with such blatant and barely bridled rage.

Derek Hale’s glare shifted to Stiles, then the Sheriff, and finally rested on Agent Donnelly. Derek angled his head forward, hatred registering in his every feature and muscles in his jaw ticking as he kept his glare fixed on the FBI agent. Scott smelt a mixture of frustration and pity waft off of Donnelly.

“This isn’t a mirror?” the Sheriff asked.

Scott turned to the agent and watched him frown. “It is. I’ve checked it over at least a dozen times; I don’t know how he does this.” He didn’t need to clarify what he was talking about.

“That’s definitely Derek Hale,” Stiles interrupted, voice firm in his conviction.

The agent regarded Stiles. “What do you know about him?”

Stiles shrugged. “Not much. His family burned alive in a fire. Everyone thought he did too.”

Donnelly grimaced and turned his attention back to his potential witness. “I’ve read about it. He won’t talk about it with me, but he wasn’t surprised when I brought it up. Furious, but not surprised.”

“I’m going to need you to be straight with me,” Stiles’ dad butted in, “What is this case about?”

Scott watched the agent’s expression flicker between annoyance and resignation. The balding man eventually sighed and answered, “We found him in the basement of an illegal operation. There’s sufficient reason to believe he was the victim of a wide range of offenses, but he won’t confirm.”

Scott inhaled sharply and felt a stab of pity, suddenly ashamed of comparing Derek to his uncle. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be kept in a basement for who knows how long; he could only hope that it hadn’t been for the entire time that Derek was presumed dead. The alpha studied the man in the room, trying to see him in the light of a victim and not just the suspicious nephew of Peter.

With the way Derek was glaring daggers at them, it wasn’t easy to do.

“We have two other victims but only one is talking,” the agent continued. With a tilt of his head he conceded, “Fortunately for the victim, he wasn’t there for long. Unfortunately for the case, he doesn’t know much. The other is being attended to. She’s…very traumatized. We’re hopeful that she’ll recover in time to testify, but that doesn’t help us right now. We have another suspect, but she lawyered up and isn’t talking.” The FBI agent turned his focus back to the man in the room and added grimly, “He knows plenty that he’s not telling us. One of the suspects is still at large and we’re running out of time.”

The Sheriff was silent for a long moment before he spoke, “C’mon, Agent. I’m going to need more than that. Who’s at large? How long was he held for? How was he victimized?” You gotta give me more to work with here.”

Scott could _smell_ the frustration coming from the agent. Instead of looking like he was going to open up, the agent only seemed to close off. The tension in the room was becoming worse fast, urging Scott to surge forward and exclaim, “Let me talk to him!”

The agent jerked in surprise and studied the alpha for a long moment. It looked like he was about to think better of it, so Scott pressed on, “I knew his uncle really well.”

That was apparently the right thing to say. A spark of hope flashed across the balding man’s features.

 _“Please,”_ he urged, willing the agent to see how much he truly wanted to help.

Agent Donnelly chewed on his lip, acquiescence and refusal warring across his face. Eventually he sucked in a long breath and nodded. Scott burst into a grin and his hand was on the doorknob before the agent could reconsider. He heard Stiles move behind him and the agent’s sharp voice cut in, “Not you.”

Scott shot his friend an apologetic look, but he didn’t wait around any longer. He rushed out of the room and made the few steps to the interrogation room.

He should have expected the stench of rage that welcomed him as soon as he opened the interrogation room’s door. But he really hadn’t thought to prepare himself for it. The noxious odor floored him and it was all Scott could do to grip tightly to the door handle and try to keep himself upright.

Nostrils flared, the alpha shook his head in an attempt to clear it and forced himself into the room.

Derek Hale was a hard line of tension, nothing except his eyes moving as the werewolf watched Scott enter the room and sit in the chair across from him.

A few tense moments went by with Derek staring down Scott and Scott unsure of how to proceed. Finally, Scott leaned forward and said determinedly, “I knew Peter.” He willed his eyes to glow red. It was only for the briefest of moments; Scott didn’t want any FBI agents to catch it. But it was more than enough. Derek’s eyes flew wide open and his nostrils flared. His expression flickered from hate to something that Scott couldn’t quite identify before it closed down.

Derek leaned back in his chair and studied Scott with a strange scrutiny. Scott really wasn’t sure what to make of it and, as the seconds ticked by, wondered if he had just alienated the stranger even more. What if Derek thought he had killed Peter to become the alpha? Oh man, he was already messing this up, wasn’t he?

“Don’t worry, he’s alive,” Scott reassured quickly. Technically true. Scott could have killed him, but that wasn’t how he did things. Peter was going to spend the rest of his life in Eichen House if Scott could do anything about it.

Another strange expression flickered in Derek, his facial muscles twitching in a way that Scott was really struggling to read. The alpha tried to sniff the air, hoping that maybe Derek’s scent would be more helpful. But the room was so saturated in anger that it was hard to pick up anything else. There were traces of fear, but even that was hard to catch and Scott wasn’t entirely sure it was from Derek. Fear and interrogation rooms seemed to go together.

Scott waited for Derek to respond. To say _anything_ really. But the other man remained rigid in his chair with only his facial twitches as any indication that he hadn’t gone catatonic.

“Listen,” Scott urged, willing the other werewolf to listen to his heartbeat, “We’re here to help. All of us. Whatever happened to you is terrible and we’re going to catch whoever did this. You can trust us.”

Derek jerked his head to the side, finally breaking eye contact with the alpha. He looked down at a corner in the room for a long moment, jaw clenching intermittently and frown growing. Scott sighed and was feeling like it was about time to stop trying to talk to a brick wall when a surprisingly soft voice asked, “You’re the alpha in Beacon Hills?”

Scott nodded quickly, then remembered the other werewolf would probably want to hear a verbal answer punctuated by a steady heartbeat. “Yes,” he answered with as much authority as the teenager felt he could give.

A dizzying array of emotions and expressions flickered across Derek’s face. Scott was at a loss for trying to interpret what was going on in the stranger’s head and was _really_ starting to feel out of his element here. He was so underqualified for this conversation.

Derek lifted his gaze to stare back at Scott. His expression was still fierce and there was an underlying layer of anger, but there was also a determination that Scott hadn’t seen earlier. It caused the alpha to inhale sharply in surprise.

He was still staring Scott down when he finally spoke. “What do you want to know?”

* * *

Stiles was oddly still in the front passenger seat of his dad’s cruiser. There was that ever present urge to at the very least fidget with his hands, but at the moment he just felt…drained. His hands lay limp in his lap.

Derek sat in the backseat with Scott and seemed for all the world to be oblivious to how deeply his brief answers in the FBI building had disturbed the three men now driving back to Beacon Hills with him.

He hadn’t been that much of a talker. Each and every answer had to be wrangled carefully out of him by Scott. And, as much as the FBI agent tried to build a rapport with the werewolf, Derek would _only_ answer Scott’s questions.

Agent Donnelly never did let Stiles into the interrogation room. It had been beyond frustrating to not do anything for _hours_. If anything, Stiles should be bouncing off the walls of the cruiser right now.

But his imagination was dredging up images of Derek strung upside down from the ceiling, swinging in tempo to the whip’s strikes, back and chest flayed open, blood running across his face and dripping to the floor. Stiles’ gut twisted and an uncomfortable weight settled in the pit of his stomach.

Maybe that wasn’t how it happened. Maybe it had been _way_ tamer. Stiles tried to reassure himself with that. This was probably just his imagination going into overdrive. Derek only mentioned hanging upside down and getting whipped. And he didn’t necessarily say they happened at the same time.

He just implied it. Heavily implied it. In all the ways an abused werewolf can imply that he was flayed alive without explaining why there were no scars.

So much was implied. Derek hadn’t said much of anything about what had happened. There had been at least ten assurances that nothing worth mentioning happened or that everything had been fine for every one confession wrenched out of him.

Stiles ran a hand across his face, trying to get the image out of his head. But in its place came the visual of Derek strapped down to a bench, metal cylinder attached to an unrelenting machine working like a piston in an out of an unlubricated ass.

Again, not necessarily what Derek had said. He just mentioned restraints and fucking machines. And he didn’t necessarily say they were used on him. The dude had avoided specifics for pretty much the entire interview.

But that didn’t stop Stiles from filling in the blanks. And it didn’t stop the teenager from feeling like he was going to puke.

Maybe it was for the best that Derek had avoided specifics. If he had been honest about how fucked up the hunters had been – and Stiles was _convinced_ only hunters would have been able to keep a werewolf around for so long – then there was no way that the FBI guy would have believed him.

Derek was definitely a werewolf, no doubt about it. There wasn’t a single mark on him. And, if you trusted the list of torture instruments the guy had given, then there was no way he could still be scarless unless he had some serious supernatural mojo going on.

Stiles wasn’t even sure if the whole spill-your-secrets ordeal had been necessary. All Derek had known about the guy the FBI were after was that he would give him books and was _nice_. Seriously, what the hell? Was this some kind of messed up Stockholm syndrome or something? He literally wouldn’t say _anything_ else.

He rubbed his face again and caught his dad shooting him a concerned look. His dad probably regretted bringing him. This didn’t turn out to be a normal police case at all.

The tension in the car was too much. Stiles sought for some joke to break it and settled with, “The brake lights of that car kind of look like a constipated alligator.”

Not his best work. Not even close. But it got an appreciative snicker from Scott and an eye roll from his dad, so he was going to count it as a win.

The supposed-to-be-dead Hale in the backseat was silent. Just stared out of the window at the desert passing them by. He didn’t even bother to look up and see what car Stiles was poking fun at.

But that was fine. The joke wasn’t really for him anyway.

Minutes stretched by with more silence and the tension built back up. His dad turned the radio up and the heavy cadence of Johnny Cash helped ease the strained atmosphere, but this still had to be the most uncomfortable car ride Stiles had ever been a part of. And that included him driving Peter around when the then-alpha bit Lydia and joked about periods.

Stiles tried to find another joke, but his thoughts kept revolving back to what they had gleaned from the former kidnapping victim and he was hard pressed to think of anything funny. His mental attempts became increasingly desperate before he finally blurted, “Perk of being dead: you already have your gravestone paid for.”

That one earned him a wince from Scott and a look skyward from his dad. Derek kept staring out the window, making no indication that he even heard it.

Maybe silence. Yeah, silence. That was probably the winning strategy here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can promise you all that the basics of the plot are already sketched out. This fic won't get dropped. Don't worry about any long delays between chapters, that's just me getting distracted by life.


	4. Projectile Motion

“Stiles!” Mr. Vickers called from the front of the class.

Stiles jerked up from his notes, dropping the pen that he had been thumping impatiently against the lab bench. It bounced off the table, jumped into the air, and landed on the floor to come to a stop under the foot of the girl sitting next to him. She fished it off the ground and set it discreetly next to him while Mr. Vickers continued, “If I drop this piece of chalk,” he rolled said chalk between his fingers, “and I want to know how long it’ll take to hit the ground, what do I need to know?”

“Uuh…how about how heavy it is?” Stiles grabbed the pen and unconsciously started thumping it on his leg.

His physics teacher’s lip quirked. “That would be intuitive, but sometimes things don’t always work the way we think they should. Let’s take a look at our kinematic equations.” He gestured to the chalkboard, showing the four equations he had scrawled on the board. “What variables do you see?”

Stiles resisted the urge to groan. He didn’t have _time_ for this. Three people had gone missing in the last three weeks. Coincidence? Stiles thought not. There was no such thing as coincidences in Beacon Hills. No bodies have shown up yet, but he _knew_ they would. They always do.

And was it a coincidence that they started disappearing right after they dropped Derek Hale off at a shelter? Was it a coincidence that Derek couldn’t be found anywhere? Again with the Beacon Hills and no coincidences thing.

He also knew that he had to get on this fast, _before_ bodies started turning up. The way things usually worked, as soon as the bodies started showing shit would hit the fan _fast_.

His leg started to pump in time with his pen.

Mr. Vickers brought his chalk back to the board and wrote down all of the variables off to the side, misinterpreting Stiles’ silence. “Let’s go through it together. We have displacement, our initial and final velocities, time, and acceleration. That’s five variables that can be used to explain this chalk’s kinematics. Mass doesn’t show up anywhere in the kinematic equations for projectile motion.” At the class’s continued and apparent disinterest, the physics teacher moved to click something on his laptop. “You guys don’t believe me? Let’s watch some videos, they’ll prove this to you better than some letters on a board.” He yanked down a white screen and turned the projector on.

Stiles did try to watch. He really did. It first was a video of two balls the same size but different weights falling at the same speed. And then of a feather and bowling ball hitting the ground at the same time in some vacuum chamber.

But he really struggled to concentrate on it, despite the narrator’s attempt at exuberance. People were _dying_. He just _knew_ they were. How fast things fell really didn’t seem to matter in comparison. He should be _out_ there. Helping his dad, dragging Lydia around until she found one of them, doing at least _something_.

The class dragged on and Stiles kept glancing at the clock, willing it to move faster. With five minutes left in the class, Mr. Vickers pulled out something that looked like a desktop catapult, put a marshmallow on it, and launched it across the room. He was telling jokes, some students were laughing, and Stiles kept thumping his pen on his leg.

“You’ll all be pairing up and making your own marshmallow launcher. Extra points for creativity and consistency in launch distance. You’ll need to use the kinematic equations to tell me what your initial velocity is, so make sure to time your launch! The group that gets their marshmallow the farthest will also get some extra credit. Sound like fun?” He got some nods and a whole lot of indifference from the class.

The physics teacher didn’t let it deter him. “Alright, everyone go ahead and pair up.”

Aaaand Stiles should have taken biology with Malia. Or convinced Malia to opt for physics with him. It had seemed like a good idea at the time to sign up for the class that involved supposedly cool projects, but he had so far proven to be a lousy partner for most of this year. Something about there being a giant monster on a killing spree and Dread Doctors killing teenagers had the tendency to distract him from things like physics projects. At least with biology he could have just hidden his grades from his dad.

He looked around for the people he would usually pair up with, but they avoided his gaze. And, frustratingly enough, Stiles couldn’t really blame them. He flipped his pen in the air and exhaled noisily.

“Stiles, right?” the girl sitting next to him scooted her chair a little closer, “Want to pair up?”

“Yes!” Stiles spun around in his chair so fast that he nearly fell out of it. What can he say? It was _awesome_ to not have to go begging for a partner.

She smiled in return and fished out her phone. “I’m Celeste, we should probably trade numbers.” Stiles pulled his own phone out and the two exchanged numbers. Project packets were being passed around, and he thinks Celeste pointed something out to him, but Stiles was having a hard time concentrating. He couldn’t help but think of the faces of the missing people that he had snuck a peak at. Hey, if his dad left him alone in his office, that was practically permission to go through his police files. 

The second hand ticked by, getting closer and closer to the end of the school day. He had to get Lydia to something that the missing people owned. That’s how this whole banshee thing worked, right?

“Stiles?” Celeste’s voice threaded through his thoughts.

“Right. Yes.” Stiles jerked back towards her, suddenly aware that she had still been talking.

Full lips curved into a slight frown. “I was saying we should probably meet after school to bounce off some ideas.”

Stiles put a hand on his head, struggling through his distracted thoughts. “Today? As in this very day - today.” He glanced at his phone, rapidly flicking the screen on and off, hoping for a text form his dad. Maybe a lead. Maybe anything. Or a response from Lydia. He wanted to take her into the preserve. Maybe they could find a body.

“Today’s not so great. I have a…hike…planned,” he glanced at the clock again, fingers twitching anxiously, and added, “with friends.”

Before she could answer, the bell rang and Stiles bolted out of his seat. He jammed his notes into his bag as he half-walked, half-stumbled out of the classroom, leaving a startled lab partner in his wake.

* * *

Derek stared out of the window and marveled at the bird that flew by. The sun that streamed through the clouds. The sight of cars flitting past. The scent of gasoline and diesel wafting up towards him from the bus stop. A man that limped past. A woman that barked on her phone. All the life that swirled around just outside of the window.

He heard a door open behind him and an unforgettable scent weaved through the air, overwhelming the smell of the city.

Derek pinched his eyes shut and tried to block it out. Tried to convince himself to wake up, because surely this was a nightmare.

“Hi, sweetie. Miss me?”

Derek wanted to move, but his limbs wouldn’t budge. Footsteps lazily strayed towards him, her stride resonating with confidence.

He felt a ring of metal press against his bare back. It nudged him gently, intently urging him to turn around. But he still couldn’t move.

She circled around him, barrel of her sawed off shotgun tracing a slow circle across his bare torso. Derek opened his eyes and steeled his courage to look at her.

Kate stopped at his side and then levelled the shotgun barrel between his eyes. She paused long enough to meet his gaze. And then she smiled.

Derek jerked awake with a shaky gasp, limbs twitching involuntarily.

As if twitching in his sleep could fend off his nightmares.

He sat up and rubbed his face, willing the sight of Kate’s smile out of his head. It seemed like he had done nothing _but_ dream of Kate ever since he got back to Beacon Hills. He didn’t know why. Didn’t really want to examine it either. He huffed in annoyance, nostrils flaring, and then forced himself to his feet.

Derek was still trying to get used to actually being out. He didn’t feel free; there was still that nagging feeling of being trapped that he just couldn’t shake. But he was able to choose where he slept, when he ate, and how long he could shower. Which he _still_ wasn’t used to. He didn’t know if he ever would be.

And the absence of a filming schedule was…it was beyond anything he could have hoped for.

Derek stood up and stretched. The grime coated cement was cold against his feet, and the cool air seeping in from the high windows chilled his bare chest, but Derek paid them little mind. It was more comfortable than that shelter had been. He had felt like a sitting duck there, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The tunnels near the remains of his home may not be the safest or most comfortable place, but something about staying there felt right.

And there were no mirrors here, which was a definite plus. He had heard horror stories of werewolves aging fast when they heal too much, too quick, for too long. And, when he was living in that basement, he knew it might happen to him. But it’s an entirely different thing to _see_ it. He’s a werewolf. He was only supposed to age at about half the rate of a human. Six years for a human’s ten. But, hell, if anything it looked like he had aged even faster than a human would have. For someone who had grown up thinking he would only be in the equivalent of his early twenties right about now, it was disconcerting to see this late twenties, earlier thirties guy staring back at him in the mirror.

It was probably fair though. It was his fault that his family couldn’t have escaped through this tunnel that he now slept in. He was the one who showed a hunter his family’s escape route. Derek may as well be the one who locked his family in the basement to burn.

He deserved what he got and then some.

Derek walked towards the high windows and stared up at the tree branches and sky that met him.

Not everyone had died in the fire. Laura hadn’t. The Sheriff had asked him if he wanted to claim her ashes. Apparently the coroner’s office still had them stored; they would for another year or two.

But he had no access to finances yet. Being presumed dead will do that. And, frankly, he didn’t think he wanted any of his family’s money. He didn’t deserve it.

She should have been buried, not burned. It wasn’t right. Derek flared his nostrils angrily and glared at the floor.

But it wasn’t just Laura that had survived. The alpha had claimed to have known Peter. And, even more overwhelmingly and world changing, he’d said that his uncle was still alive.

But the alpha hadn’t said anything more about Peter. Where he was, how he was doing, things like that. And Derek hadn’t asked.

Well, he couldn’t stay cooped up in this tunnel forever. As much as he didn’t deserve the title, he was a Hale. He had a responsibility to Beacon Hills and his family; his fuck ups didn’t give him a pass. Far from it. If there was still a member of his family out there, he _needed_ to see them.

It was time he talked to the alpha.

* * *

Scott was just about to pull his helmet on when he saw him. Heart jumping in surprise, Scott lowered his helmet and watched as Derek Hale weaved his way through the high school’s parking lot.

He looked a lot better than the last time Scott saw him, no longer radiating anger like a hot furnace. Instead of a grossly oversized FBI shirt and sweatpants, he had apparently gotten himself a long sleeved shirt that fit and a pair of jeans. Derek’s eyes flickered between Scott and the pavement, alternating between determination and what looked to be trepidation.

It was clear that Derek was working his way to him. Scott set his helmet down on his bike’s seat and waited for the other werewolf to reach him, thoughts racing through reasons why Derek would be here.

Derek had disappeared almost right after being dropped off at a shelter, much to the chagrin of the FBI agent that saw to the housing. Scott had feared that whoever the FBI were chasing had somehow gotten to Derek. But now here he was.

The alpha released a relieved breath to see the kidnapping victim safe and sound.

“Hey!” he called out, throwing Derek a big grin.

Derek’s silent response involved facial twitches and a twist of his eyebrows that Scott wasn’t able to interpret. He was just going to count that as a greeting.

Before Scott was able to ask where he’d been, Derek asked without preamble, “Where’s Peter?” 

Scott blinked in surprise, then pressed his lips together as he tried to think of a good answer.

He probably should have seen this coming; it made sense that Derek would want to get in contact with his only living relative. But how do you tell someone that their uncle is a crazy, power hungry, homicidal maniac? Should he pull punches here? How was he supposed to say, _Hey, I know you just got out of a basement and you probably want to be with family right now, but you should stay away from Peter?_

Scott sighed. As much as he really didn’t want to rain on this dude’s day, he was willing to bet things will get worst if he lies right now. When in doubt, honesty usually worked best. He willed his heart as steady and as sure as he could make it before saying, “Peter did some bad things. Really bad things. And he hurt a lot of people, so he’s in Eichen House right now.”

Derek’s face did something that Scott wasn’t able to understand before it closed off, leaving a hard mask in its place. Scott winced and took a step towards him, “Listen, I’m really sorry but he’s bad news.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitched before he gave a slight nod. Without another word he had turned around and was walking away.

Scott wanted to call out to him. Ask him where he had been or if he needed help. To say _something_ and not just leave it at that. But his gut was telling him to leave the dude alone, so that’s what he did. Derek passed behind one of the cars heading out, and then was out of sight.

With a sigh, Scott pulled his helmet on.

* * *

“Heeeey, Lydia,” Stiles panted, sliding to a halt in front of her locker.

Lydia shot him an unimpressed look before returning her attention back to sorting through the textbooks in her locker. “What is it, Stiles?”

“Oh, you know, just the usual. Missing people, maybe dead,” he gave a sharp jerk of his shoulder, approximating a shrug, and gestured vaguely with his hands, “Thought maybe you could go and do some of your banshee-ing.”

She pulled out a criminally thick biology book and answered in obvious exasperation, “Stiles, I’m not able to just _know_ if someone I’ve never even met is dead or not.” She punctuated her sentence with a harsh snap shut of her locker’s door.

Stiles bent his knees and jerked back up, as if he was trying to use his whole body to push his plan onto her, “It couldn’t hurt to try, right? Come on, Lydia. People don’t just go _missing_ in Beacon Hills.”

Lydia sighed dramatically and stared at the ceiling, rolling her eyes briefly before a put out, _“Fine.”_

The gangly teenager pumped his fist in victory. “Yes! Victim number one’s apartment, here we come!”

“Stiles!” Lydia protested. But her friend was already scrambling through the high schoolers milling about in the hallway, undeterred from his mission.

“You can’t be serious,” she hissed under her breath. But she still shouldered her bag and followed him out, heels clicking loudly on the tile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your comments really mean a lot to me, I love them! You guys are truly great.


	5. Heart of Silver

Stiles drummed his fingers together while he watched Lydia. She was moving slowly, tracing her hand lightly across worn furniture and trying to avoid the mess that probably should have qualified this place as uninhabitable.

Hank Young’s apartment was a disaster. Stiles might have been tempted to say that the scattered books and boxes of food showed signs of a struggle, but that would mean that said struggle would have had to encompass every nook and cranny of the one-bedroom. The hastily kicked off shoes at the entrance, the random piles of clothes everywhere, the pizza boxes stuffed in the corner of the living room, the pile of dishes and trash in the sink and on the counters.

And, now, the broken window in the bedroom.

Hey, this was the pursuit of justice and truth here. What were a few broken windows? Nothing, that’s what. Minor details. Little footnotes.

“Anything?” Stiles asked again.

Lydia shot him a glare. “I’ll let you know if I get anything,” she snapped, enunciating each word vehemently.

“Geez, alright.” Stiles stepped back and offered her space again, kneading the corner of his lip with his knuckle.

She stepped carefully on the littered floor and continued her halting stroll about the apartment, her expression one of thoughtful puzzlement. She paused, fingers caressing the short stub of a pencil that had seen a few too many sharpenings. 

Stiles stepped forward and hovered close, eagerness and impatience winning out. “Well?” he prodded when the silence stretched on.

“It’s strange,” she murmured, focus still on the pencil. She twisted her head in consideration before she added, “It’s like he was never here.”

The not-banshee in the room, who was seriously not appreciating the mystery, dropped his hands and twitched in annoyance. “I find _that_ a bit hard to believe. I mean, look at this place.” He gestured around at the empty pizza boxes and piles of laundry, before letting his hands flop down to his sides. “Not exactly the example of an unlived in home.”

Lydia shook her head, focus still honed in on the pencil. She picked it up and rolled it around between manicured fingers. “No. That’s not what I mean.” She raised her gaze to meet his, “It doesn’t feel like he was alive at all.”

He watched her through narrowing eyes. “So what? Like, he was a zombie or something?”

Lydia rolled her eyes and muttered, “Like I know.”

She placed the pencil back and froze. Her features twisted in consideration again as her fingers skated over a silver necklace. Her index finger came to a rest over its heart-shaped pendant and she tilted her head once again in thought.

“Did he know someone who was murdered?”

* * *

Derek resisted the urge to flinch when the door slammed shut behind him. _Just keep going,_ he urged himself. He had come this far already. With a resolute determination, he ignored how the hair on the back of his neck stood up and he pressed on.

Derek made his way to the front desk with a focused deliberation, the tiles of Eichen House’s entrance echoing with his steps. A greasy-haired young man looked up to stare down the visitor. Derek refused to flinch. He would _not_ be cowed. He was going to see Peter, and this asshole wasn’t going to stop him. He gritted his teeth and the pair glowered at each other for a moment before Derek finally snapped, “I’m here to visit a patient.”

The man slowly pushed forward a clipboard and pen, never taking his eyes off Derek, and intoned, “Write down your name, the patients name, and the time and date.”

Derek snatched the clipboard off the counter and grabbed the pen. He scanned over the sign in sheet before filling it in with angry slants.

The orderly took the clipboard back and read it briefly. His face remained stoic, but Derek heard his heart rate jump in what he had to guess was surprise.

“That patient has restricted visiting hours,” the orderly said slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. Derek wasn’t sure if he spoke to everyone as if they were a patient, or if he was just doing it for Derek’s benefit. Either way, it was grating against his nerves. “You can come back Friday between ten and two.”

Derek ground his teeth and his glare turned positively murderous. But the orderly didn’t flinch. He was tempted to flash eyes and fangs and force his way in. Being so very close to where Peter was, it seemed absurd to have to wait until Friday.

But the orderly stood his ground, his right arm rigid and twisted in a way that Derek was willing to bet meant he was hovering over some kind of panic button. Derek huffed angrily and turned sharply on his heel, heading out of the sordid place.

He moved briskly, wanting to get _out_. Entering the veritable prison had taken a good deal of will-power and, now that it was time to leave, he couldn’t seem to get away fast enough. Derek took the steps quickly, feet barely touching the stone as he worked his way to the gate. He pushed open the iron with vehemence and then was moving into the twilight, the sun nearly blinding him with the low angle it was at.

Derek had made it a block, thoughts mulling over _why_ Peter would be in Eichen House and what possibly could have earned him restricted visiting hours. None of it seemed good. The hair on his neck was still standing on end, but the werewolf ignored it. He just had to get away from the asylum.

But after another block, when small homes started to pop up and he should have started to feel a bit more at ease, his gut was still pulling at him. Urging him to move faster.

It was an odd enough feeling to cause him to look up from his thoughts and really take in his surroundings.

A squirrel was bounding across someone’s yard, pausing long enough to swing its ears around before sprinting up a tree. A curtain in one of the homes rustled. The distant squeal of a child playing reached him. The grass, what little of it there was, looked burnt and dying. The houses were in bad shape, with rusted gates and damaged siding. One of the cars parked on the street had a cable holding its bumper on. Another had a tarp over a missing window. And a van at the end of the block, engine idling, looked brand new. With deeply tinted windows.

One of these things was not like the other.

Derek must have stared a moment too long: the van jumped out of its parking spot and throttled down the potholed street. Instinct more than anything had Derek on all fours and running as fast as his limbs would carry him into one of the yards. He slipped around a building’s side and leapt over the chain-link fence in the back, crashing into their neighbor’s yard. A dog jumped to its feet and began howling, but Derek paid it little heed as he dashed around the house and into the adjacent street.

Tires squealed loudly as the van darted around the block to catch up with him. The werewolf scrambled forward, hurrying faster and faster, lungs heaving with giant breaths. The sound of the van’s roaring engine and squealing tires were only getting louder.

Instinct still ruling his flight, Derek leapt onto one of the roofs. Some of its shingles slid down and he nearly lost his footing, but he kept going. He bounded across the roof and launched himself onto the next roof, scrambling to land on its slipping shingles.

He had made it across four roofs before he felt a wave of drowsiness hit him. Derek snarled, recognizing the feeling of being sedated even through the adrenaline. He launched himself onto the fifth roof.

But he was starting to lose coordination. He landed awkwardly and his leg gave out. Derek spiraled off the side of the roof, landing hard on a cement driveway. Refusing to slow down, he limped to his feet and stumbled forward. He looked around hastily, trying to spot the van. While he didn’t see it, he could definitely hear its engine growling on the other side of the house.

The neighborhood was starting to become more cramped; the dilapidated houses squeezing in next to industrial buildings. He spotted an alley and surged forward.

It was a dead end. Derek snarled and let his claws loose, digging them into the brick wall. He started to scale it, his grip slipping and his legs starting to drag him down more than help him up. 

He managed to clear the top and pitch over to land hard on the other side. The werewolf tried to get back up, tried to keep running, but he could only half crawl, half stumble forward before he tripped and landed in a heap.

Derek looked up, trying to see where he was. What escape route was left to him. But his vision was blurring. He couldn’t make out much more than the concrete under him.

He strained his hearing and honed in on the sound of a roaring engine. Derek held his breath, trying his damndest to track it. As the seconds ticked by he listened to it grow fainter and fainter until eventually it was out of his range.

Derek heaved a sigh of relief. He tried one last time to move, but the most he could manage was a twitch. The werewolf looked around hopelessly for anything that might help, but his vision remained a sea of colorful blurs.

Heaving another sign, this time in annoyance, Derek resigned himself to a long wait.

* * *

“Check out what we have here.”

A voice threaded through the fog that Derek was under. Blearily, he tried to focus on the source.

“Looks like someone got a bit drunk.”

“See what he has on him.”

Distantly, Derek registered that he was being moved. Something brushing against his ass and thighs.

“Nah, man, someone must have gotten to him first. Doesn’t have shit. No wallet, no phone, nothing.”

“Shit.”

“Got a pretty mouth though.”

“Gross, man, you get that from your time?”

“Hey, a mouth’s a mouth.”

“Well I’m out, this guy’s…the hell? Is that a tranq dart?”

“Oh man, fucking weird. It’s as if – _holy shit!”_

Derek registered what sounded like the shriek of a hawk, then the panicked scrambling of feet and the thud of someone falling.

“Fuck! _Jack!”_

A much more human shriek followed, piercing the air and causing Derek to twitch. Beating wings. The snap of bone. A gargled scream. Hyperventilating. Running.

And then it was quiet.

* * *

Stiles held the heart-shaped pendant up close and peered at it, his eyes starting to hurt from how hard he was straining. Lydia steadfastly ignored him and kept her own eyes on the road.

This wasn’t stealing, alright? It was temporarily borrowing. Completely justified. If they couldn’t find out if Hank Young was dead or not, then they could definitely try tracking the necklace of a dead girl he probably knew. Totally justified. This right here was supernatural evidence.

It had gotten dark out, making it hard to see much of the necklace in the dim lighting of Lydia’s car.

They may have lost a good bit of time trying to fix his Jeep when it refused to start. And then even more time getting it towed to the repair shop. But hey, his Jeep was going to be just _fine_ and they had a lead. It was fine. This was alright.

Stiles put the necklace down and turned to Lydia. “Are you _sure_ you can’t get any more out of it? Like, I don’t know, maybe a face? Or a name? A name would be great.”

Lydia pursed her lips. “Oooh yeah, Stiles. Definitely. I can get you a name. And her age. And whether or not she likes her men in boxers or briefs.”

“So not appreciating your sarcasm.” Stiles slumped back in the passenger seat and stared out the window.

And then furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, because this side of town definitely wasn’t on the way to his place.

“Lydia,” Stiles asked carefully, “Where are we going?”

“Taking you home, obviously,” she groused, “I think we’ve broken enough laws for today.”

Stiles heart jumped and he turned back to the window, watching the increasingly industrial area pass them by. Lydia flicked her blinker on and turned right, leading them further and further away from any kind of route that would lead to his house.

She finally pulled over to the side of the rode and turned to him, giving a hard look. “Next time you want to go breaking into someone’s place, do it with Scott. I’m not doing that again.”

“Lydia…”

“I’m serious, Stiles. We can’t just go breaking into people’s homes. I shouldn’t have let you talk me into it.”

“No, Lydia – ”

 _“Stiles!_ I’m serious!”

Stiles stared at her for a moment before saying deliberately, “Lydia…this isn’t my house.”

Her expression froze. Then she slowly turned to take in their surroundings.

“Oh god,” she finally whispered.

Stiles popped open the passenger side door and carefully stepped out, eyes and ears on high alert. They were parked in front of an alley sandwiched between what looked like two warehouses. A streetlamp illuminated some of the sidewalk, but the alley was pitched in darkness. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, glancing down at it long enough to turn on its flash light.

There, in the very back of the alley, was a body.

Stiles ran and dropped down next to the body. And then promptly froze, eyes widening. Because that? He recognized that. This wasn’t just some random dead guy. He’d recognize that annoyingly well chiseled face anywhere. This was Derek.

The click of heels tore his attention away. Lydia hovered near the alley’s entrance and asked with a tremor in her voice, “Is he dead?” But it wasn’t really a question. She already knew. She had to know. Lydia only ever found the bodies when they were already long gone.

Stiles felt a sick twist in his gut. He turned back to Derek, his hands hovering awkwardly above him, afraid to touch.

And he must be getting stupidly optimistic, because he could have sworn he just saw an eyelid flutter.

Stiles leant in close and stared. And _there!_ It fluttered again. Definitely a flutter. Light hazel greeting him for the briefest of moments before sinking shut again. It definitely just happened. He wasn’t imagining it.

“Lydia! Open the backseat!”

Heels hurriedly clicked back to the car while Stiles tried to hook his arms under Derek’s shoulders. He swore at the solidly dead weight and tugged harder. Derek’s jeans and shirt scraped along the concrete as Stiles pulled and stumbled backwards.

Stiles climbed into the backseat first and tried to lift and drag Derek inside. He ended up banging the werewolf against the doorframe several times before managing to get the top part of his torso in. “Oh _god,”_ he huffed, “If you wake up, you better not be angry about this.”

Lydia was trying to stuff his legs into the backseat. Stiles scrambled out the other side and moved around the car to join her. Together they managed to get Derek in the backseat and shut the door behind him.

Stiles took a moment to lean against the car, gasping for air after lugging what had to be a solid ton of werewolf.

“Dee,” he squawked, trying to speak between gasps, “Deaton’s.”

* * *

Lydia had to be the one to call Deaton and tell him to get his ass to the animal clinic, Stiles had struggled to catch his breath for most of the ride.

He could have kissed the man when he came out to help get Derek inside.

It was easier with the two of them; they were able to prop him up between them, the toes of Derek’s shoes dragging on the ground. They managed to pull him up onto the metal examination table, then Stiles stepped back as Deaton descended on Derek.

The vet pulled open one of Derek’s eyelids and shined a light into it. Then the other eye. And then pushed two of his fingers up against the side of Derek’s neck.

“So what? Is he dying? Is he dead?”

“Not yet,” Deaton answered. He looked briefly up to an IV line in the corner of the room, “Could you bring that over here?”

Stiles scrambled forward and snatched the IV, its wheels skittering over the floor as he yanked it over to the table. Deaton was already inserting a needle into Derek’s arm and Stiles tried his best to ignore the wave of nausea that hit him.

 _Shouldn’t have looked,_ he thought as he backed up and steadied himself against a wall. Stiles averted his eyes and focused on a corner of the ceiling while Deaton continued his work. Lydia came back into the room, having finished locking the entrance, and hovered by the door.

The sounds of Deaton rustling about finally stopped and Stiles looked back. Derek still looked very much dead, but if he stared hard enough he could just convince himself he saw the subtle shift of his shirt while he breathed.

Deaton stared down at his patient for a long moment before saying, “You two are lucky you brought him here when you did. Any longer and we’d have a serious problem.”

“Was he poisoned? Was it wolfsbane? Was it a hunter?” Stiles rattled off, stepping closer.

“I can’t answer as to whether this was done by a hunter or not,” Deaton answered smoothly, “But I can tell you it wasn’t wolfsbane. This was a powerful sedative at much too high a dosage. “

“Someone was trying to capture him,” Lydia guessed.

“I imagine Derek will be able to tell us more when he wakes up. In the meantime, I suggest you two go home. It is a school night.” Deaton quirked an eyebrow and Stiles mouth dropped into a frown.

He crossed his arms over his chest and stopped fidgeting. “Nope. Not a chance. If this guy’s track record is anything to go by, he’ll make a run for it as soon as he wakes up. I’m not letting that happen; I want some answers.”

To emphasize his point, Stiles dropped down into a chair and gave a what-you-gonna-do-about-it jerk of his shoulder.

Lydia seemed to hesitate by the door. “I have a quiz tomorrow…” She stared at the man on the table, looking to be wrestling with the desire to stay and the logic of returning home. Finally, she yielded, “Text me when he wakes up?”

Stiles answered with an affirmative hand wave, then settled back as Lydia turned to leave.

Deaton gave Stiles a long look before turning to a counter and sorting through something. The teenager leaned even further back in his chair and watched the almost imperceptible and definitely too slow rise and fall of Derek’s chest.

He’d wait all night if he had too.


	6. Heart of Darkness

_“Stiles,”_ his dad’s voice carried over the phone, somehow still managing to sound sharp and intimidating without any of the body language that usually went with it, _“Please tell me you slept over at Scott’s.”_

Stiles winced and shot Scott a look. His friend gave him a sympathetic frown in return, listening in with his wolfy powers.

“Something like that,” Stiles answered and quickly changed gears, “We found Derek.”

There was a pause on the other side of the line. Stiles could imagine his dad’s expression contorting with first surprise, then annoyance, followed by a large helping of worry. The teen fidgeted in his chair, struggling against the desire to fill the silence.

_“Are you alright?”_ his dad finally spoke, _“Is anyone hurt?”_

Stiles sighed and leaned back, staring at the man still fast asleep on Deaton’s examination table. Derek’s breathing looked normal now, even to Stiles’ untrained eyes. And Scott claimed that the drugged werewolf’s heartbeat sounded good too. He supposed that was as good as he could hope for.

“I’m fine,” Stiles answered, “No one’s hurt. Someone might be after Derek though.”

There was a long exhale on his dad’s side of the call. _“This is a police matter, Stiles. Hell, it’s an_ FBI _matter. Go to school. I’ll call the agent.”_

“They’re not going to be able to do anything,” Stiles snapped before he could stop himself, “This is the work of hunters and some stupid agent isn’t going to be able to do –“ Scott dropped his hand onto Stiles’ shoulder and squeezed gently, bringing a halt to his diatribe. Stiles jerked his gaze from the still unconscious Derek and to his best friend’s reassuring, brown eyes.

Stiles scrubbed his face and tried to relax, listening as his dad launched into a heated lecture. Leave the police work to the actual police, try to go to high school and be a kid, all that bullshit. As if he’d ever be that irresponsible.

_“Are you even listening to me?”_ his dad finally asked.

“Absolutely,” Stiles lied.

His dad gave a disbelieving grunt. A long pause followed. Long enough that Stiles was about to assume the conversation was over and hang up when his dad hesitantly broke the silence. _“Listen...don’t take this to mean that I think you should get involved, but do you or any of your friends know anything about any kind of werebirds? Are those things?”_

Stiles sat a bit straighter. Beside him, Scott seemed to tense as well. “Why? What happened?”

The Sheriff sighed on the other side of the line. _“We had some guy come in last night claiming his friend was attacked by some kind of bird person. I’m tempted to say he’s spouting nonsense but...well...you know.”_

A groan came from the center of the room and both Scott and Stiles snapped their attention to the prone werewolf. “We’ll give the bestiary a look,” Stiles said quickly, “Listen, can I call you back? Love you.” Without waiting for a response, Stiles hung up and jumped to his feet.

Scott closed the short distance to the examination table and hovered over Derek. “Derek?” the alpha asked sharply, “Can you hear me?”

Eyelashes fluttered for a moment. Fingers twitched. What sounded like frustrated breath came from him. And then the man’s face twitched and his eyes snapped open.

Derek’s gaze narrowed quickly, going from startled to suspicious in the span of a heartbeat. His scrutiny flicked from Stiles first, to Scott, to Deaton’s examination room, before finally resting on Scott.

“Where am I?” he rasped.

“You’re at Deaton’s,” Scott answered, dropping into a soothing cadence, “He’s a vet who’s helped us before. Can you tell us what happened last night?”

Derek grimaced and silence dragged on in answer. Stiles noted the way his eyebrows twitched and something in his gaze flickered with what looked like an internal conflict.

Whatever he was debating, it didn’t seem to be going in the favor of talking. A sharp twitch at the corner of his mouth seemed to signal a decision and he dropped his gaze, staring at nothing in particular.

“Whatever it is,” Scott said gently, “We can help.”

The older werewolf huffed and Stiles caught an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Derek slid his hands up by his hips and pushed himself into a sitting position, swung his legs over the side of the examination table, and slid off to the ground. He made for the exit, but Stiles stepped forward and blocked his path. Derek froze and his face screwed up in puzzled surprise. And damn if he didn’t look as though his dinner had just talked back to him. 

“Woah there, big guy,” Stiles crossed his arms and spread his stance, “You’re not going anywhere. Not until you tell us what happened.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed and he gave Stiles a look that was quite literally the textbook definition of get-the-fuck-outta-my-way. Wide eyes, flared nostrils, pinched lips, the whole nine yards.

“What?” Stiles tossed him his best winning smile, perhaps crippled by an undercurrent of superciliousness, “You gonna be the big bad wolf and force your way out? What are you going to do? Attack me?” Stiles took a step forward and narrowed his eyes, “You really think Mr. True Alpha over here is going to let you get away with that?”

A low growl started to crawl out of Derek’s throat, but it stalled as soon as Scott moved to stand next to Stiles. “Derek,” he entreated, “We’re just trying to help.” Scott shot Stiles a quick look that was the essence of, _Dude! What are you doing?_ Stiles slinked back a step, feeling the burn of a good Scott-scold. 

Derek’s jaw ticked and Stiles could imagine what had to be some rusted decision making gears trying to take a spin. “I went to visit Eichen House,” he finally murmured. Scott’s eyes flashed – not in the glowy werewolf kind of way but in the dude-what-the-hell kind of way. There was an almost imperceptible flinch from Derek in response, but he pressed on. He licked his lip and offered, “I think they were waiting there.”

“Who’s _they?_ ” Stiles demanded, entirely willing to press his luck until it ran out.

The werewolf’s jaw ticked again and his face screwed up like it physically pained him to think. Stiles was tempted to joke that Derek should take it easy and not hurt himself, but this wasn’t the time to edge on the rabid dog.

“I’m not sure,” he finally admitted, “I never saw them.”

Scott nodded grimly. “You can stay at my place,” he offered. At Derek’s answering, squinty-eyed suspicion, which Stiles was beginning to suspect was the dude’s version of resting bitch face, Scott added, “Just until this is sorted out. Then you can do whatever you want. I promise.”

Derek shook his head and made to walk past Stiles.

Like any grown ass adult would do, Stiles took another step to block him. He was _not_ being childish. This was answering time, dammit. He stayed up all night for this shit. If anything, this was mature. Hear that? _Maturity_.

Derek’s answering glower of condescension said he felt otherwise.

“I think staying with Scott is a _great_ idea,” Stiles threw at him. He even gave another winning smile for the clincher. 

But Derek’s darkening expression was giving off the vibe that maybe his Stiles magic wasn’t as effective on tall, dark, and handsome.

“Derek,” Scott said in his best soothing, all around everything-will-be-okay voice, “We can help. Stay with us until we figure out who’s trying to hurt you. You don’t have to stay with us any longer than that. I _promise_.”

Derek’s expression flickered and Stiles could have sworn he saw a bit of raw hope mixed in with the distress and anger. But then it was gone as fast as it had come. And the mask of anger and suspicion was back in full force.

But...with his lip curled in distaste, Derek nodded.

* * *

Derek slammed the bathroom door shut with a bit more of a flourish than was strictly necessary. Words could not express how much he delighted in shutting the door when he needed to take a piss.

Out in the living room he could here Malia groan. She apparently had a math test tomorrow. And it was undeniably not her strong suit.

_Like you’re one to criticize,_ he thought as he lifted the toilet seat and pulled his cock out, _Only things you could do in high school were basketball and languages._ He had, however, excelled at the two. Basketball wasn’t too useful outside of school, but his skill in tongues had been so exceptional that his mother had him training to be the pack’s translator.

But that was all before. Now his skill in tongues had nothing to do with speaking.

Derek gave himself a shake once he finished and zipped back up. He ducked his gaze to avoid the mirror and hesitated before going for the hand soap. Ultimately deciding that cleanliness was better than babying himself, he pumped the soap dispenser’s handle. Derek’s nose twitched in distaste while he lathered his hands in the foamy, pomegranate scented soap. It was a luxury, sure, but this was one upgrade he could do without. He was pretty sure Marla had used the same hand soap. It smelt revolting.

The werewolf scrubbed his hands clean with vehemence, followed by a vigorous wipe down on the fluffy towel that was hard enough to make the soft cotton feel more akin to sandpaper. 

He liked it better that way.

The floorboards creaked in the same spot they always did as he worked his way back to the living room: two feet from the bathroom, slightly left of the center of the hallway. He’d only been here a week, but he was already getting a feel for the house’s character.

Warm. Familiar. Loving.

Derek pressed his lips together grimly and sank down into his spot on the couch. Malia was hunched over in a patterned armchair, closer to the fireplace, and was biting her pencil with a fury. Derek ignored her struggle and opened the book he was currently on. _Heart of Darkness._ Derek supposed it had been one of Scott’s assigned reading books at one point in time. All of the books he had borrowed from Scott so far had a distinct ‘high school required reading’ vibe about them: _To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby, Macbeth_ , and _Brave New World_. He imagined there would be more eventually. Possibly. Assuming neither he nor Scott died. Or nothing else happened.

On second thought, assuming there’d be another book was a stupid thing to do.

Malia let out another long groan and tossed her textbook on the floor. Derek flicked his gaze over to her and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m never going to get this,” she whined.

“Not with your book on the floor, you won’t,” he grumbled in reply.

Most of the other teens in Scott’s pack would glare at him for his snark, but Malia didn’t even bat an eye. She did, however, sink deeper into the armchair and pulled out her phone.

Derek returned to his book and ignored his watchdog.

Upstairs he could hear Scott and Stiles pouring over their bestiary. The supposed bird person was proving to be quite the challenge for the dynamic duo.

“Scott, I think I have something,” Stiles’ voice carried from Scott’s bedroom.

There was a shuffle of shoes and the rustling of paper. And if anyone asked, Derek wasn’t eavesdropping.

“Look at this. Victim number two was out on parole. He had ten years for a robbery gone bad. Looks like the plan was a straight forward convenience store robbery. Point guns, grab cash, make a run. But Josh here didn’t follow the robbery textbook and instead shot up everyone in the store. Real nasty piece of work.”

More papers were shuffled and Stiles went on, “Number three looks squeaky clean, but take a look at her bank statements.”

“How did you get her bank statements?” Scott cut in.

“Please,” Derek could imagine the eye roll, “Her account’s password was the name of her Shih Tzu. That’s like _begging_ for someone to take a peak.”

There was a disgruntled noise from the morally sound alpha, but Stiles pressed on, _“Anyways_ , if you take a look at these they just don’t add up. She makes _way_ more than a waitress should. My guess? Little miss Natalia wasn’t so squeaky clean after all. And then there’s number four, who was apparently in the middle of trying to rob our resident grump. Who also has a _long_ rap sheet to his name, ranging from minor drug charges to aggravated assault. And then victim number one had a dead girl’s locket. I went through the guy’s phone records–”

_“Stiles,”_ Scott interrupted.

“Relax,” Stiles placated, “His password was his birthday. Seriously, Scott. Anyways, I went through them and the dude’s a serious recluse. Calls his mom once a month, orders out for pizza pretty frequently, but other than that the dude doesn’t talk to _anyone_ else. No other calls and he doesn’t even _have_ texting. If there was ever a girl in his life, she was a long time ago.”

The sound of a wheeled chair spinning around punctuated the answering silence. Stiles put in his kicker, “I can’t find any skeletons in his closet, but I’m willing to bet that if I dig deep enough, they’ll be there. And come in the form of a dead girl.”

“So what?” Scott asked, tone tinged with nervousness, “You think this thing’s attacking criminals?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles sighed, “Only victims two and four were ever in the system. One and three look clean unless you dig. If this thing’s targeting bad guys, it’s _really_ good at it.”

There was an answering silence. The sound of something landing on a springy mattress. And then Scott spoke up, “Maybe it’s not killing them.”

Another moment of silence, followed by Stiles carefully following his alpha’s train of thought, “Maybe it’s recruiting them.”

Derek thought back to the sound of bone breaking and gurgled cries. He highly doubted anything that did that was looking to “recruit.”

But it was good for the boys to be paranoid. The world was an untrustworthy place. Derek turned back to Scott’s book and flipped the page.

* * *

Stiles wasn’t able to sleep.

A cricket was chirping outside. His cell phone blinked regularly with some unchecked message, illuminating the dark of his room. A light on his laptop also periodically and gradually adjusted from dim to bright, signaling its sleep mode.

If he was being smart and responsible, Stiles would just go to bed now. It had been a long day: Malia had bombed her math test, his dad was getting suspicious that he might be poking his nose into “police matters,” and they still had no real leads on either the bird thing or whoever was hunting Derek.

And none of that stopped Stiles from being horny as fuck.

With a sigh, Stiles kicked off his covers and staggered over to his desk. He sank into his chair and flipped open the laptop. The Mac’s bright screen flashed to life and Stiles stared at it, fingers resting on his keypad, and told himself for the millionth time that he shouldn’t do this.

The number on the clock in the bottom corner of his screen seemed to mock him with its lateness. 3:16 AM. He really should go to bed. This wasn’t worth staying up for. Hell, this wasn’t worth _doing_. 

Stiles went to his email and stared at his inbox. He didn’t click on any of it. Everything was already greyed out and read twice over. Just one unread message hung out at the top from an SAT prep website.

3:22 AM.

_Fuck it._

Stiles clicked over to a user-upload porn site and typed ‘werewolf BDSM.’ 

He scrolled through the results, ignoring the thumbnails of blondes bent under grizzly looking men and brunettes tied to beds. He kept scrolling until… _there_. The thumbnail was of a naked man spread eagle on a wooden frame. His hands were suspended up in the air, his stance spread wide and ankles tied to the frame, chest waxed clean of any hair, and…and the wolfed out face of Derek Hale glared back at him.

Stiles’ breathing started to become tight and he wasn’t sure if the feeling he was getting in the pit of his stomach was disgust or…or excitement.

He clicked the link.


	7. The Choices We Make

_“Stiles!”_

Stiles jerked in his seat, suddenly aware that someone had been trying and failing to get his attention. He spun around and came face to face with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. A girl – _physics partner_ , his memory supplied – was hovering above him, bagged lunch in hand.

“You haven’t been avoiding me, have you?” she piped up, “The marshmallow launcher is due soon and we haven’t even started.”

It took a beat for Stiles to figure out what the hell she was talking about. A bit difficult to concentrate on innocuous things like physics projects when his mind’s eye was recalling the camera’s pan and zoom of Derek’s bound balls, flesh a vibrant and strained red, bordering on purpling.

And there it was again. Stiles’ stomach twisted unpleasantly at the same time that his mouth began to water. The fucking awful power combo of disgust and excitement he’s been dealing with since last night.

Guiltiest. Fap. Ever. It was so _easy_ to think of that stupid video as just another BDSM porno with a ridiculously attractive porn star. He’s seen dozens of pornos just like it, minus the fangs. Removed from its context, it was obnoxiously effortless to see it as a means to another quick orgasm.

Then his brain would kick in. Remind him this wasn’t a porn star with some facial prosthesis to get the bestial look. Wasn’t just some guy who was paid to be there, cleaned up afterwards, had a burger, and headed home to maybe watch some TV before crashing for the night. No, that was goddamn _Derek Hale_. The same guy who had radiated rage in the FBI interrogation room and had looked ready to throw Stiles against a wall at Deaton’s. The same guy who would sit quietly on Scott’s couch and read books that Stiles would have rather chucked under his bed. The same guy who would never, ever be caught sleeping by anyone. If it wasn’t for all the growling, Stiles would have put money down on vampire.

“Stiles?”

Stiles realized his focus had drifted again. Looking back to his physics partner, he could see that her amusement was gone.

“Come with me to the hardware store after school.” It wasn’t a question. And, judging from her dangerous expression, it wasn’t up for discussion.

“Right, of course,” he agreed. Her jaw ticked and it looked like she wanted to press the issue, but after a moment she gave a tight smile and continued her walk to some other part of the cafeteria.

Stiles released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and sank lower in his seat. 

He was such a fuck up.

He picked at his fries and could hear Derek counting. _Slap._ ‘One. Thank you, Mistress.’ _Slap._ ‘Two. Thank you, Mistress.’

“Stiles?”

Stiles looked up and met Scott’s eye. His friend looked like he had been about to get into the seat across the table, but had caught something in Stiles’ expression that had him frozen in place. 

“What’s wrong?” The honest concern radiating from Scott’s wide, brown eyes somehow made the sickening crawl of Stiles’ stomach even worst.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Stiles muttered. As if to prove his point, he made a show of stabbing one of his fries, lifting it with a wide flourish, and smacking his mouth loudly while he chomped on it.

Scott looked unconvinced. “You just ate a fry with a fork,” he pointed out.

And…okay, point made. Still. “What? I can’t eat my fries with a fork? What kind of uncivilized world are we living in?”

His bud huffed, still looking every bit unconvinced, but accepted the deflection and sat down. His expression, if possible, got even more serious and Stiles could feel a shiver run down his spine. Scott pushed his tray forward enough that he could get his elbows on the table, leaned forward, and whispered, “Lydia screamed last night.”

 _“What?_ Where? With who? Has there been a body?” Stiles spilled out loudly.

Scott made a shushing motion and looked around in what he probably thought was a surreptitious manner, but which was probably even more obvious than Stiles outburst.

“She was at home. No body…” Scott’s expression was pinched and for a moment he didn’t look to be the confident, reassuring presence that Stiles had come to see him as. He looked more like the kid that was scared he wouldn’t be able to get through a lacrosse game and Allison’s dad would kill him, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Hey,” Stiles murmured, “It’ll be okay.” He didn’t dare say anything more. Scott was the one who was good at reassurances. Stiles was more of the let-me-dig-my-own-grave-by-talking kinda guy.

Scott nodded and gave a wane smile, the expression not even getting close to reaching his eyes. He looked down at his plate and started on his hash browns.

The two ate in uncharacteristic silence for a minute before Stiles felt eyes on him. He looked up to see Scott regarding him with something that looked dangerously like mischievous curiosity. He knew he was in trouble when a real, lopsided smile blossomed.

“What?” Stiles gestured with his fork, “Got something on my face?”

Scott gestured past him with a slight jerk of his head. Stiles took what he hoped was a stealthy glance over his shoulder and caught sight of his physics partner watching him. She looked away as soon as he turned around, but not fast enough for him to not catch it.

“Looks like you got an admirer,” Scott grinned.

Stiles jolted with surprise and fumbled with his fork, dropping it on the floor just as Scott burst into a laugh and Liam plopped down on the bench next to him.

“What’s going on?” the underclassman asked, taking a bite out of an apple while Stiles stared forlornly at his dirtied fork.

The high schoolers dropped into a friendly banter. And Stiles let himself forget, even if it was just for this one moment of normalcy, about the piece of his soul he lost last night.

* * *

Marlow had just gotten to Kurtz when Derek caught the familiar scent of sandalwood and spice. He froze, ears perked and nostrils flared.

There was no mistaking it. Derek gently set the book down, Marlow’s quest through Africa momentarily forgotten, and quietly padded over to a window.

Standing on the other side of the street was Jeremy, looking for all the world to be completely at ease. His arms lay lax at his sides, his stance was loose and casual, even his head was slightly cocked in what might be seen as a friendly and playful manner. Only the fierce lock his eyes held on Scott’s home gave him away.

“It’s time to come home, mutt,” the man said quietly, knowing full well that Derek’s hearing would get the message loud and clear.

Derek hesitated only the briefest of moments before walking to the front door. Once open, he leaned outside and said, loud enough for his voice to carry, “I don’t want to be locked up again.”

Jeremy took a step closer, getting off the sidewalk and to the side of the road. His smile was wide and reassuring. “If you come now, there’ll be no need for locks or mountain ash or any of that nonsense. Those were Fred’s precautions, you know that. I’ll trust that you won’t run away.”

He chewed on his lip, battling with his choices. On one hand, filming was wretchedly awful. The thought of going back to that left a nauseatingly bad taste in his mouth and a twist of his gut. On the other hand, this was _Jeremy_. Outside of filming, the man was practically family. Derek had never known him to lie. And if being able to walk about freely would be on the table?

Derek imagined the two of them sitting around a table, eating sandwiches, enjoying a comfortable silence, sunlight streaming through kitchen windows.

He’d never get anything close to that staying here.

“Do you promise?” Derek asked, forcing steel in his tone. But he was sure Jeremy didn’t miss the tremor that he couldn’t quite help.

The handler met Derek’s eyes for a long moment, then said with a weight of finality, “Yes. I do.”

Derek shut the door behind him before he stalked across Scott’s yard.

* * *

“Maybe this?”

Stiles stopped fiddling with a spinning whachamacallit long enough to watch his physics partner pull a rubber cord off a shelf. She pulled on it and it snapped instantly back, thick cord demonstrating quite a bit of elasticity. She lit up in a pleased grin, bright white teeth against dark lips.

“That’ll work,” Stiles agreed quickly and started to head to a different part of the store. She trailed behind, still playing with the elastic cord she found.

Stiles wanted to get this over with as fast as he could. He _needed_ to figure out what the hell Lydia had screamed about. They still had _no_ bodies, four missing people, a werewolf holed up in Scott’s living room, and Lydia had just _screamed_. He could feel an electric pulse of urgency running through him. While he’d probably enjoy the shit out of this little shopping trip on a normal day, today he just felt edgy and wanted to get to Scott’s.

Speaking of which. Stiles answered the call as soon as he saw Scott’s name flash on his screen, stepping quickly away from his physics partner for a semblance of privacy.

“What’s up?” he asked eagerly.

“Derek’s gone,” Scott answered, a hint of panic fraying his tone.

“Shit,” Stiles hissed quietly, “I’m on my way.” He ended the call and was out of the hardware store, an ignored cry of _wait_ lost behind him.

* * *

Scott couldn’t figure it out. It didn’t look like there had been any kind of fight, nothing was broken, the locks all still worked fine, and he couldn’t even smell a hint of residual panic. The only sign that Derek had ever even been there was a faint whiff of ember and cedar off the couch and Scott’s copy of _Heart of Darkness_ laying on the table.

He heard the growl of Stiles’ Jeep long before his friend’s sneakers skidded to a halt behind him.

“What happened? Is he dead? Does it smell dead?” Stiles train of thought sounded like it was going a mile a minute and all Scott could do was frown helplessly.

“Honestly? It’s like he just got up and left.” 

There was a moment of silence behind him. Scott turned around and was greeted with a huffing and frustrated Stiles. “So what? Room service wasn’t good enough for him? He just up and _left?”_

“We need to find him,” Scott said firmly, “Before something bad happens.”

Stiles didn’t say anything in return, but did pat Scott’s arm encouragingly.

However, before the pair could begin to strategize, the familiar purr of another engine carried closer to Scott’s home. The werewolf furrowed his brows in confusion, not understanding what Parrish’s cruiser would be doing coming here. He hadn’t been expecting Parrish.

Stiles followed, sputtering a startled _what?_ , when Scott suddenly moved to the front door.

The Deputy pulled into Scott’s driveway behind Stiles’ Jeep and got out of his cruiser briskly. Too briskly. Parrish’s steps were measured and controlled, but there was no denying the tense set of his jaw.

“We have a problem,” he said in way of greeting.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked, body nearly vibrating with nerves. Scott could hear his heart pick up its tempo and shot his friend a glance. Stiles ignored it.

“A body,” Parrish answered. Stiles’ scent shifted in a way that Scott wished he could identify better from smell alone. But he didn’t need to be an olfactory genius to know that this was what Stiles had been waiting for.

“You should come with me,” Parrish was already heading back to his vehicle. Stiles didn’t need any more prompting; he vaulted himself into his Jeep and was on the throttle before Scott had so much as budged.

No time to waste then. Scott hurried to Parrish’s cruiser and slid into the passenger seat while the hellhound got the car in drive. Parrish took them out of the suburbs quickly, lights flashing and cars pulling out of their way. Based off his route, they were heading to what Scott was willing to bet was the Preserve.

“Is there a reason you didn’t want to do this over the phone?” Scott needed to know.

He watched Parrish’s jaw tick. There was a moment’s pause before he admitted, “I have a theory about who did it. But I want you to see it yourself first.” The Deputy shot Scott a quick look, “You can sense things that I can’t. And I’d really rather be wrong this time.”

Scott tried to relax and worked on keeping his breathing calm as Parrish got closer to the Preserve, the Jeep uncomfortably close to their rear bumper. Scott could hear the commotion of officers milling about before they turned a corner and the flashing lights of cruisers came into view.

“A hiker and his dog found it,” Parrish offered in what sounded like an apology. Scott nodded and climbed out once the Deputy pulled over.

Parrish led them into the woods, closer to the sound of officers and the stench of blood and decay.

The sight that greeted them was worthy of a B movie slasher scene. Entrails dangled from branches, a disembodied leg sprawled on the ground in front of him, the trees and ground were coated in coagulated clumps that had once been blood, and a torso lay stretched before them with its ribs wrenched open. Organs had been ripped from the cavity and thrown yards away, some of them shredded to ribbons.

“Wow,” Scott breathed right as Stiles came up behind him and yelped, “Oh my god!”

The Sheriff sharply turned to the pair and barked, “Parrish! What are they doing here?”

The Deputy inclined his head in what was probably meant to pass as an apology, but his tone belied the gesture, “I wanted to see what Scott had to say.”

Stiles’ dad seemed none too pleased, but his attention bored into Scott. “Well, I suppose since you’re already here…what are you getting from this?”

Amid the carnage was the scent of the air just after a thunderstorm mixed with rosemary. Scott had only ever known one person who smelled like that.

“Don’t tell me…” Stiles muttered, staring at the scattered corpse. 

It wasn’t just the scent. They had seen this type of carnage before. This loss of control coupled with superhuman strength and the ruthlessness to use it.

But it didn’t make sense. They were looking for bodies that looked like they were attacked by birds. Not this.

Scott had no clue what was happening or why, but he did know with certainty who had done this. The Sheriff must have read his conclusion on his face, because he sighed long and deep and rubbed his forehead.

They stared at the remains a moment longer before Scott couldn’t help but voice his confusion, “Why would Kate come back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How I handle posting new chapters: [Link](http://theawkwardyeti.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/Refresh.jpg)


	8. Rain on Dry Soil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter about a guy who has spent a decade being brainwashed. Consider yourself warned.

Derek idly flipped the page in the book Jeremy had lent. Then flipped back a page. Then forward. Then back. If he was being honest, he wasn’t really reading the words anymore. Ender was just about to leave his sister behind to go off and answer the call for a Speaker. This would be it – they’d never see each other again. She would stay on Trondheim, have a baby niece Ender would never see, and live a life with a family Ender would never be a part of. And, try as he might, Derek couldn’t help but see a bit of Laura in Ender’s sister. It was making reading through the scene particularly difficult.

It wasn’t the first time Derek had read _Speaker for the Dead_ , and he could hardly complain about the repetition. It was a good book. He was lucky to have anything right now, all things considered.

But after he reread the same sentence yet again, Derek finally gave up and let the paperback flip shut. The story was failing to distract him in the way he needed. Heaving a sigh, the werewolf rested the book on his chair’s arm and stared at nothing in particular. The motel room was decidedly bland: one upholstered armchair, two Queen beds with off-white sheets, a bedside table that had seen better days, and another scuffed table supporting a TV. Derek briefly considered turning the television on, but decided that’d be even more torturous than trying to read. Sometimes the best pastime was to just disconnect from everything, and now seemed as good a time as any to do just that.

And so Derek sat. And stared at nothing. And thought about nothing. Or, at least, he tried to think about nothing. But thoughts curdled in his mind and eventually Derek was out of his seat and pacing the motel room’s length. 

Coming here might have been a mistake. He could still run away; scamper back to Scott’s while he had a chance. From the little he knew of the alpha, Derek was sure that Scott would take his omega ass back under his protection without a second thought. Truly, for an alpha so young, he was already an amazing leader.

Or maybe this was just a dream. Because, as much as Derek tried to distract himself from it, this room carried an aroma he never thought he’d encounter again. Mixed in with the motel room’s lingering odor of supposedly cleaned cum and vomit was the unmistakable blend of petrichor and rosemary. Rosemary wasn’t too uncommon, but petrichor certainly was. Derek had only ever known a handful of people who carried the appealing and powerful scent of rain on dry soil. His mother had been one. Paige had been another. And then there was Kate. Coupled with rosemary? That had once been Kate’s scent.

He had to be dreaming. And yet… He counted five fingers on each hand. The alarm clock’s red light flicked once as it increased from 7:35 to 7:36. Derek was tempted to get up and try a light switch, but he suspected it wouldn’t change what his gut had been telling him since he got here.

Petrichor and rosemary.

Perhaps the petrichor belonged to one person who had stayed here, and the rosemary to an entirely different person. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to face his nightmares becoming reality.

As if he’d ever be that lucky.

The crunch of gravel as a car rolled in roused Derek from his thoughts. He turned to stare at the door, not daring to move, while the thud of boots hitting the ground came closer and closer. Metal scraped metal when a key was inserted, followed by the click of the lock sliding out of the way. Derek inhaled sharply, then breathed a sigh of relief when a spicy gust of cumin scented air came in through the open door. Jeremy stepped in, bags weighing down one arm as he fumbled to get the key back out of the door. The scent of frustration spiked the air and Derek walked over to help.

Frustration usually smelled like orange bubble gum to Derek. He wasn’t positive why, but he had the irritating suspicion that it was because of the orange flavored bubble gum that a girl in his Geometry class would always smack on. He had never finished that year of school, but if he had then it was a pretty fair bet that Geometry would have been a nasty letter on his report card.

Which brings him back to _why_ he didn’t finish that year of school: his own _stupid_ teenage asininity and the hellion in boots that smelt of petrichor and rosemary.

Derek took the bags from his handler as the other man jiggled the key, trying to force the door knob to relinquish its hold. Eventually he succeeded and slammed the door shut.

“Well then,” he swiped the bags from Derek. “We have some food for later,” he fumbled around in the plastic and tossed a few bags of chips on the bed for display. At Derek’s raised brow, the handler rolled his eyes, “Not my fault. I’m a wanted criminal now, it sucks. That’s the good ol’ U-S-of-A not realizing that you and the others are just werewolves.”

Derek watched as Jeremy heaved a sigh, air spiking with that tangy orange scent again, before he sank limply onto the bed. The man leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp.

It was strange seeing Jeremy like this. So obviously stressed. His handler’s pulse was an inconsistent riot, his breathing strained, and the werewolf thought he might even hear the gurgle of indigestion. Derek settled on the bed next to him and watched the man carefully, wondering how he could possibly help. He wasn’t very good at reassurances. No, he tended to make things worse by speaking.

So Derek settled with what he knew. He lifted his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, gingerly set it on Jeremy’s shoulder.

The man jerked to look at the werewolf. While Jeremy remained rigid under Derek’s hand, the werewolf could hear his heartbeat steadying. The handler pulled in a long breath and flashed Derek a smile that almost looked fond.

“You _are_ a good boy, aren’t you?” the man murmured and reached his hand up to stroke Derek’s hair. The werewolf’s eyes slipped shut as he soaked in the comfort.

They stayed like that for a moment, Derek’s hand resting on Jeremy’s shoulder and Jeremy ruffling Derek’s hair. It was exactly the kind of thing Derek had yearned for. The werewolf did his best to absorb everything about the moment, committing it to memory. The scents lingering in the motel room included.

But, like all good things, it couldn’t go on forever. Jeremy pulled his hand back and gave Derek a pat on the back. “Well, mutt, we’ll have to be getting back to work. Been too long without any content.”

Derek pulled in a long breath while his handler got back to his feet. He knew this was coming. He wasn’t stupid. He had to earn his keep somehow.

Didn’t stop him from hating it.

Should he take the opportunity to ask about the scents lingering in the room? The question was on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be released. But Derek stalled. He tried thinking of a different way to word it; one that wouldn’t imply that he disapproved of his handler’s decisions. But he couldn’t think of the right way to word it.

And so he said nothing.

The handler pulled out an absurd and floppy dildo from one of the bags with a flourish. It waggled with the motion, jelly material doing little in way of stiffness. Derek raised an unimpressed brow and Jeremy scratched the back of his neck. “Don’t give me that look,” he grumbled, “It’s the best I could find without getting caught on some store’s camera.”

He tossed the dildo and Derek caught it with ease. The pink jelly was somewhat translucent, which he supposed would be a plus for Jeremy’s filming. There was an attempt at ribbing along its length and it was topped with the mold of a cock head, accompanied with a base at the bottom. It wasn’t the _worst_ dildo.

Derek shook it and watched the jelly wiggle effortlessly. Once he managed to get this joke of a sex toy in his ass, he’d have to be careful to not completely pull it out or else he’d have to repeat the obnoxious process.

Jeremy fished out a rather small camera from one of the bags. Derek didn’t recognize it, but he was willing to bet it wasn’t new. No one could accuse the cameraman of having a small equipment stash. Or, at least, that was how it had been before the raid. Jeremy flipped open the display and started to fiddle with it, leaving Derek to his own devices.

The werewolf sighed and pulled his socks off before heading over to the bathroom. He ducked his gaze to avoid the mirror, dropped the socks in a corner, shimmied out of his jeans, tugged off his shirt, and yanked off his boxer briefs. This wouldn’t be a strip tease and there were no partners, so no need to awkwardly try to get out of his clothes with the camera rolling.

Derek heard a rustling of plastic before Jeremy stepped in the bathroom with a pack of disposable razors, a bottle of lube, and a familiar pouch, hose, tip, and clamp. His handler set them on the counter before retreating from the bathroom to let Derek prep.

With another sigh, Derek scratched idly at his chest. Truth be told, he was almost sad to lose his growing chest hair. He ran his fingers though the short, coarse strands and let his thoughts drift. If he was a big, burly sort of man he’d get to keep his hair. There was a market for bears… But he wasn’t. And the porn viewing public apparently had it out for body hair, so lose the body hair he shall. 

With a flick of his hand, the hot water tap was on. He let it run for a moment before ripping open the pack of razors, yanking one out, and holding it under the stream. The tap was left to run and heat up while Derek started the tedious process of shaving off his body hair.

The razor pulled across his chest, leaving a streak of bare skin. Derek flicked it under the stream of water, watching as the dark hairs scattered in the sink before being dragged down the drain. Taking in another slow breath, he pushed onward. He’s hairiest at his forearms and shins, so that was where he ended up spending the most time. And his ass crack, not helped in the least by the fact that he can’t really visually inspect to see if he got it all.

Eventually he was as clear of hair as he was going to get. There was the slow but steady burn of his body healing razor burns; in a few minutes he’d be good to go. Which left just one thing left. Derek heaved yet another sigh and grabbed the hot water bottle.

By now the water was as hot as it would ever be. Derek knew that. But he still held his fingers under the stream to see how far off ideal he’d be.

Well, it was warm. That would have to be enough. Derek brought the bag under the stream and filled it partly. Experience is a hell of a thing. After years of filling the same kind of hot water bottles, he could tell when it was full enough from sound alone. Derek turned the tap off once satisfied and, with a practiced ease, attached the hose and clamp. With a squeeze, he let it flow until the pouch was gushing nothing but warm fluid. 

It’s a common misconception: that sex work is sexy. Derek found it anything but. It was a process to him, pure and simple. Motions mechanical, Derek attached the tip, flipped open the lube’s cap, and applied it liberally.

Personally, Derek found enemas easiest on his back. So he settled on the cold tiles and slid the tip in past his ring of muscle. Holding the bag up in the air, he took a moment to fiddle with the clamp until he was happy that it was a nice, slow flow.

Minutes went by in relative boredom. A cramp delayed him for a moment, necessitating a pause followed by a slower flow to relieve the problem. Other than that, there was nothing else to do except stare at the cracked paint on the ceiling and listen to Jeremy shifting furniture around.

When he figured he had taken enough, Derek dragged himself to his feet, pulled out the enema tip, and went to sit on the toilet. And waited. Again.

This time he amused himself by reading the ingredient label on the motel’s complimentary shampoo. He had gotten to the point where he was about to start reading the chemical names aloud to see how badly he would butcher them when his bowels finally decided to release. 

A quick check of the toilet bowl told him that it wasn’t clear enough, so flush and repeat. Refill the bag, lay back down, and trace a different crack in the ceiling.

Derek was on the toilet again and quietly trying to wrap his tongue around ‘lauroamphoacetate’ when Jeremy called from the room, “Almost done?”

There was a hint of impatience in the otherwise calm tone and Derek couldn’t help but frown. Impatience during prep time was no good. An impatient handler was how you ended up with blood and shit on your dildo. …Or a generous donor with a request. That could get you there too. Derek suppressed a shudder.

Thankfully his bowels finally released their hold on the enema’s water. And it was, in fact, just about all water this time around. “I’m done,” Derek confirmed, pausing only long enough to squeeze some lube up his ass before stepping out of the bathroom.

Jeremy smiled at the sight of his prepped werewolf and clapped his hands together. “Excellent! On the bed, mutt. Start by facing the camera. Deep throat then fuck yourself. On your side next. Finish with your back to the camera and claws in the headboard.”

That’ll be difficult to explain to the maid. But Derek didn’t argue. Instead, he climbed wordlessly onto the motel bed and took a moment to look around the room. Jeremy had taken the liberty to rearrange it in what Derek figured was an effort to improve lighting and potential camera angles.

Derek’s nakedness was of no concern to him. Even if he hadn’t spent the last decade naked in front of this man, his mother had been a full shift werewolf. Nakedness had never been an issue. It was just skin.

But what was an issue was his lack of erection. Most people didn’t want to see a flaccid cock when they were trying to get off, so Derek wrapped his fingers tightly around his length and started to slowly pump. His thoughts went to Kitten. The soft flesh of her small tits, the ripple of her ass when he smacked it, her black, silken hair under his hand. And he tried not to think about how much he missed her. Or how the world had a way of being cruelest to the best of us.

It wasn’t overly challenging to keep his thoughts on Kitten’s ass. It had been a _glorious_ ass. Gradually his organ filled with blood, limp flesh transforming into a rigid shaft.

Once he was hard enough to get started, he looked up to see that Jeremy was in position. The red light on his camera was illuminated and a confirming nod indicated that they were good to go.

Showtime. Derek crawled forward on the bed, elbows digging into the mattress and ass lifted high and swaying. Core and back tensed, Derek made sure that his muscles bunched and relaxed as desired. He stopped once he was hovering over the pink rubber and brought one hand up to gently trace a line from tip to base.

The werewolf sat back on his heels, wrapped his hand around the dildo’s base, and lifted it slowly. Trying to minimize how much it bent and flopped about, Derek brought his other hand to its center as support. Floppy dildos, while admittedly fun to wiggle around when no one was looking, hardly made for sexy props.

With a well-practiced look of sexual hunger, Derek licked his lip slowly and flashed blue eyes behind drooped eyelashes. “Good, mutt,” his handler approved subvocally. Nothing that the camera would pick up. More of a breath in his throat. Derek supposed it must make editing easier when there were no vocal commands to clean out.

Inching his face closer to the jelly, Derek dragged his tongue from base to tip. The rubbery flavor was fairly revolting, but Derek pressed on. Licking a foul dildo versus ripping his ass on a dry one – the choice was obvious.

After a few more long licks to wet the dildo’s shaft, he was wrapping his tongue around the mold of a cockhead. A swipe under the glans. A lick up to the fake slit. Then he wrapped his lips around the top and pushed down.

Derek knew he didn’t have the best lips for giving head. Too thin, too pinched, etc. But he did have a good neck for deep throating. The werewolf tipped his head back and carefully slid the pink length down. He reached the back of his mouth and pushed further, poking the tip of his tongue past his lip to better make room. Relaxing his throat was almost instinctual at this point in his life. Before you could bat an eye, he had it down.

Dimly, he was aware of his handler repositioning to get a better angle on his throat’s distention. Derek pulled the dildo out, took a careful breath, and pushed back down. “Faster,” his handler murmured, and Derek obliged. Tipping his head further back, Derek pistoned the rubber in and out of his throat. Tears spilled reflexively from the intrusion and his nose started to run. The werewolf strongly suspected that the runny nose was just saliva pushed up through his nose rather than snot, but the point remained: it was not a pretty look. No, it’s a fucked out look. Which he supposed was exactly what Jeremy was going for, since the cameraman grunted his approval and breathed, “Switch.”

Didn’t need to be told twice. Derek wrenched the dildo out and sucked in a great gasp, lungs heaving with air like a man near drowning. Practically panting, Derek was dimly aware of drool dribbling down his chin and wondered again how indecent he must look.

But there was no time to dawdle, not when he had a job to do. Growling low in his throat and flashing blue, the werewolf leaned back and spread his legs. His erection was beginning to lag, so Derek brought back thoughts of Kitten. Her brown nibbles pebbling under his touch. Her folds, swollen with blood, yielding to his tongue. The clench of her asshole when he would brush his finger against it. The gasp she’d make when she came. The little dimples that would form when she’d smile. The aromatic blast of iron that had been her only warning that she was done with this life. Derek wondered if they had managed to get the bloodstains out of the wood before they moved Fox into her room.

 _Not helping,_ he snapped at his straying thoughts. He slid one hand down his stomach, tracing the ridge between his abdominals, before he wrapped his fingers tightly around his cock and pumped slowly back to turgor. Thoughts of Kitten were proving to be mixed, so he pulled up the mental image of Leia during her time with Jabba. Metal framed bikini and hair pulled back in a grabbable braid. Sliding that long skirt out of the way, smacking that smooth ass, pulling her head back to expose that long neck…and there we go. Flagging erection fixed.

Derek rolled his hips in a way that he’d been told looks enticing before he lined the rubber up with his asshole. One hand gripped right under the fake glans and another further down the dildo’s length to hold it steady. The jelly material was already wet from the viscous spit of Derek’s deepthroating, and as soon as he got past his sphincter then the lube he squirted up his ass earlier could come into play. All things considered, this was going well.

Taking a steadying breath and waiting for his ass to relax, Derek pushed the rubber in and tossed his head back. He knew better to let a grimace show on camera.

As often as he did this, it was _still_ absolutely bizarre to shove something up his ass. His body rejected the intrusion and was invariably _convinced_ that it needed to shit it back out. The werewolf paused long enough to get his mental game on point and ignore his body’s urge to attempt a futile dump, focusing instead on the odd feeling of pressure.

He pushed further, ignoring the discomfort of his sphincter stretching and instead tried to stay tuned in on that strange, indescribable pressure. Splaying his legs wider and tilting his hips helped both the stretch and, he suspected, the camera’s view.

Pulled out, slid further in, tugged back out, pushed further in. After a few thrusts the base of the dildo was buried between his ass cheeks and Derek was arching his back with a groan.

“Good, mutt,” his handler practically purred.

Now that the rubber cock was seated in his ass, he only really needed one hand to maneuver it. So Derek dragged his other hand slowly back up his torso to flick a nipple.

“Claws,” came the subvocal command.

And Derek complied. He popped his claws out and slowly traced a circle around his nipple with one pointed tip.

“Fangs.”

Derek twisted his neck at the discomfort of his canines lengthening, but within a moment he had fangs and claws out on display. A snarl ripped from his throat, still raw from earlier, and Jeremy made an approving noise in response.

The werewolf was so absorbed in his own performance that he missed the sound of boots crunching gravel. His only warning was the click of a key turning the lock before the blend of petrichor and rosemary hit him like a punch to the gut.

In an alternative universe, perhaps he could have met Kate after all this time with dignity. Maybe he could be fighting for his family’s honor or something noble like that. Or he could be shot by a wolfsbane bullet instead of having a floppy dildo shoved up his ass. Because he was pretty sure that being hit by wolfsbane would be much more preferable.

Kate had aged well; he could at least grant her that. And she seemed just as surprised to see him spread out on the mattress as he was seeing her in the doorway.

Her surprise was short-lived. Ever adaptable, the hunter’s face lit up with a large, bright grin and laughter pealed through the room.

* * *

Stiles stared at his writing on the tempered glass: _Werebird?_ He stared at the mug shots of Josh Anderson and Jack Greene. The profile pictures of Hank Young and Natalia Clark. Stared at the locket suspended from the corner of the board with red tape, connected to the profile picture of Hank Young with another strip of red tape. Stared at a few images of the mauled and recently identified Marie Brown on the other side of the board. And stared at a profile picture of a laughing Marie Brown right below the photos of her shredded entrails. And right next to those were the pictures Lydia had taken of Kate’s last mauling victim – the gas station attendant.

He had a lot of pictures and not a lot of tape connecting them.

In the middle of his board, under the scribbled _Werebird?_ , was what he so far had on possible ‘avian humanoids.’ And you can’t blame him for the lame ass phrase, you can point the shame at whoever named the Wikipedia article. Fun fact: the Sumerian patron of beer was originally a bird that could breathe both fire and water. Pretty badass, but probably not their bad guy. Then there was the Garuda from Hindu and Buddhist mythology that, according to the myth, almost destroyed the whole planet when it was born in a giant ball of fire. Hopefully not their bird person because so far they’d been doing a lousy job of just keeping Beacon Hills safe, never mind the entire world. There was the karura from Japan, but that one wasn’t supposed to have wings and was so lame that Stiles wanted to chuck it in the trash. But it sounded vaguely close enough to kanima, so he left it up. Just in case.

The Greeks had a whole bunch of winged things, including the Gorgon sisters and a bunch of gods and goddesses. Older stuff about Sirens had them as a mix of women and birds, along with their ugly harpy cousins that no one should ever invite to Thanksgiving. Seriously, the harpies were some gross, smelly lady-birds according to the Greeks.

There were the Valkyries from Norse mythology. Stiles was kinda hoping that’d be the one, if no other reason than because Valkyries sounded awesome. Japan also had the tengu, which was once upon a time a nasty demon that’d take a human like version of a bird of prey. But that was back in the day. Modern tengu looked more like red faced clowns with Pinocchio noses.

Stiles groaned and sank onto the side of his bed. He was getting nowhere. This wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg – there were _tons_ of different types of ‘avian humanoids’ out there in mythology and folklore. And, with the bestiary proving to be unhelpful, that was where they were at. Reading old myths which probably weren’t going to be of any use at all.

His phone buzzed and Stiles dragged it out of his pocket. When he saw the name _Celeste_ on his screen, his gut jumped in his stomach. Or his heart in his throat. Or some version of organ jumping. He wasn’t actually too sure what the phrase was. Whatever. Things jumped. Point made.

“Heeeeeey,” he answered awkwardly, wondering how the hell he could play off bailing on his physics partner at the hardware store.

 _“Stiles,”_ she acknowledged. But instead of the frustration or anger that the teenager was definitely expecting, she sounded almost…triumphant. Like Lydia when she was going to ask Stiles to do something that Stiles definitely didn’t want to do because Stiles likes _living_ , thank you very much, but knows Stiles will do it for her because Stiles is Stiles.

He might not have had enough adderall today.

_“I know something that might interest you.”_

“The deadline’s been extended?” he hazarded, expression pinching at the vain hope.

 _“No,”_ there was a snort on the other side of the line, _“Information that might be useful to the little pack you run around in.”_

Ever feel like someone just pulled out a rug from under you? You’re standing there with your feet nice and planted on the ground and comfortable in the knowledge that even though crazy shit happens in your life, you can at least count on physics to be boring. And then all of a sudden you’re on your ass and hoping you didn’t break your tailbone? Yeah. Tailbone broken.

“I’m...I’m sorry, could you run that by me again?” Stiles glanced back at his board. Looked at all the dead and missing people. He hardened his tone and added, “Because you should be very clear about what you mean before we continue this conversation.”

A light chuckle on the other side of the line answered him. _“Your little supernatural pack, Stiles. The one led by a true alpha. I know where that omega werewolf you’ve been sheltering has run off to. Clear enough?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are great. That feedback, guys, I eat it up.


	9. Fischer Monkshood

The world was shaking.

An earthquake? Derek instinctively rolled off the couch to get under a table…But no…that wasn’t quite right. The floor he landed on was uneven and cramped. As if he had fallen into some odd ditch.

Derek tried to focus. He heard a rumble… Thunder? No, more of a growl… A werewolf? Ah wait, gasoline and old fries. A car. It was the sound of a car engine.

 _ho… mmh… odd… oh… ma… on… oh mah… gone…_ Words, he belatedly realized. There was a person here. It sounded like the echo of someone speaking underwater, but the werewolf pushed his hearing until he had it: _“Oh my god!”_

His eyelids didn’t seem to want to cooperate; he was only able to fractionally open one while the other stayed pinched shut. Something brown and frayed swam blearily past, edges fuzzy then sharp then fuzzy. Derek tried to open his eye wider and _focus_. Wood shavings? No, a leaf. Pieces of a leaf.

Derek groaned in frustration, then in pain when a loud yelp of _Shit!_ blasted through his eardrums.

“I think he’s waking up.” Feminine. Almost bored.

“Oh god, I hope not.” Masculine. Stressed. “I’m already scarred for life, I don’t know how much more of that I can take.”

“Could have been worst.” The feminine…no, _Malia._ Derek remembered that voice. Malia.

“Really don’t see how.” Stiles. The masculine one. Stiles. “Just get back there and keep him asleep or something.”

There was a creak of something shifting. His shoulder was being pushed by what felt like a hand and _oh!_ Derek felt a jolt at the contact. Heat spread and he groaned in a euphoric rush. His mouth suddenly watering, he worked his jaw and reached out for something – _anything_ – to suck on.

And then a crack of what felt like knuckles collided with his cheekbone. And the world was dark.

* * *

**Earlier:**

Christmas come early? Cat got the canary? Kate wasn’t sure what expression was most apt for this moment, but she was damn sure she must have done something right in a past life. Because this? This was just too good.

The last Hale – Peter didn’t count – was more of a little bitch than she had ever imagined. Jeremy couldn’t have caught Derek without her help, so the werewolf must have crawled back on his own. And then fucked _himself_ on his own. Honestly, too good to be true. It was as if the universe was enjoying a good joke with her.

“Dammit, Kate! What the hell?” Jeremy flipped his camera shut, likely recognizing that his pet wasn’t going to perform in front of the audience. 

Kate ignored him, her focus instead on where Derek had backed himself into a literal corner. The werewolf was crouched as if he was ready to spring. Fangs out, jaw snapping, claws splayed in threat; it was all rather pathetic.

 _Just like an animal,_ Kate mused.

“We were in the middle of a shoot,” Jeremy tried again.

She rolled her eyes and drawled, “Let me guess: it was riveting and convincing, right?”

“It was good enough to sell,” he grumbled defensively.

She shot the cameraman a look of heavy judgement before returning her scrutiny back to Derek. Animal or no, he had filled out quite handsomely. It’d be a waste to not put that masterpiece to work. Kate wet her lips and finally turned her full attention to the ex-hunter, “Have you ever tried Fischer Monkshood on him?”

Jeremy’s face scrunched in a mixture of confusion and concern, “I try not to use _any_ monkshood, I don’t want to kill him.”

Kate’s grin was positively predatory, “Oh, sweetie, Fischer Monkshood doesn’t kill.”

* * *

 _“Your physics partner?”_ Scott’s baffled tone carried over the phone.

“Oh my god, _yes!_ How many times do I have to say it?” Stiles barked into his receiver, trying to tug on his shoe and jacket at the same time, phone pinched precariously between his shoulder and cheek.

 _“It’s just…”_ Scott’s thought trailed off, followed by the staticky sound of a long inhale. _“Alright. I’ll be right over.”_

“Nah, don’t bother, I’m already heading your way.” He hopped into his Jeep and swerved out of the driveway. Rolling through stop signs and squealing around corners, Stiles made it to Scott’s fast enough to give his dad a headache if he ever found out.

He had expected to see Scott come out of the front door. Malia trailing behind was more of a surprise.

“I don’t know how you got here so fast,” he admitted in a relieved huff, “but boy am I glad you made it.” 

“I was already here,” Malia said shortly, staring out the window, “Shifting practice.”

Scott snorted and Stiles got the there’s-totally-a-story-going-on-here vibe. He also got the now’s-definitely-not-the-time vibe, so settled with a disgruntled eye roll that he hoped they appreciated before he peeled out of the neighborhood.

“How does this girl know where Derek is?” Malia asked, still staring at the houses passing by.

“Yeeeeah,” he grimaced, “she didn’t say. Just the whole, hey, here’s the address and oh, by the way, better get there quick. Then kinda just hung up. And ignored my calls. And texts. And I think miiight have blocked my number.”

“Do you think it’s a trap?” Scott leaned forward, crooked jaw set in that way he gets when shit goes into we-might-all-die mode, “We’re kind of rushing into this without any plan.”

“Honestly?” he squeaked.

Scott nodded slowly, “But you think it’s worth it.”

Stiles chewed on his lip and worked his jaw. Was it worth it to run into what was probably going to be a trap for Scott’s surly, runaway houseguest? Probably not.

But his gut was tugging him on. Telling him that something more than just Derek Hale was going on here. Shit was about to get real; Hotel California you-can-check-out-but-you-can-never-leave real. The missing probably-bad-guys, Kate’s eviscerated victim, the illegal pornographer/torturer, he didn’t know what but _something_. 

“I dunno, I just have this feeling,” he eventually admitted, knuckles going bone-white on the steering wheel, “Something’s going to happen and there’s too much mystery in this town already and I’m _sick_ of being in the dark.”

“Okay,” Scott reassured gently, “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

 _Famous last words,_ Stiles couldn’t help but think.

* * *

 _What...,_ Derek thought blearily, _What is…_

It was no use. Try as he might, his mind resisted coherency.

Derek arched his back as another pulse of heat jolted down his spine. His claws dug through the sheets and he kicked his heels into the mattress in a futile effort to crawl out of his own skin.

It wasn’t working. Nothing was.

Fingers trailed down his stomach, leaving shocks of sensation in their wake. Derek gasped and shuddered with the overwhelming need to get closer. He arched up further, a whine in his throat.

The hand retreated and Derek was left panting and confused. _What was…_ the thought was aborted when another feather-light touch ghosted over his shoulder. Derek curled into it, trying to catch the finger with grasping hands.

Something reverberated through the air and Derek distantly recognized it as a laugh. But before he could figure out who or what had made it, a finger was pressing gently against the corner of his lips. Without hesitation, he captured it and started to suck.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. Derek opened his mouth wider and tried to get the other fingers, the whole hand, he didn’t really care so long as it was _more_.

The hand pulled away and Derek reached out blindly, a gasp nearing a sob shaking his core. A shape moved and hands were suddenly gripping his upper arms, pulling him up. Derek went gladly, his legs kicking out awkwardly in a fumbling effort to sit up.

He eventually got it right and was able to get his knees under him, but as soon as the hands let go the room spun and he found his face pressed into the mattress.

But it was okay, because fingers were tracing down his back. Heat curled along his spine and he shivered, arching once again into the touch. Another set of fingers curled into his hair and yanked his head forward. Derek tried to crawl forward and follow the tug, limbs twitching unnaturally under him.

The tugging stopped and a musky scent twisted through his mind, calling on a distant familiarity. But then there was a sudden press of _skin_ and the memory was forgotten. His body seized at the initial shock and his jaw hung loose – so much skin! Far more than just the fingers. Euphoria had him panting and scrabbling his hands uselessly in the sheets, as if he could burrow into the sensation.

A voice, just by his ear and clear enough to come through the haze he was engulfed in, commanded, “Suck. Lick.”

He could do that. Derek nuzzled against the warm flesh, listened to the blood pulse just beneath the surface, and dragged his tongue across skin. It brushed against something wet and electric heat raced through him to pool low in his belly. 

This was familiar. A foggy corner of his mind offered muscle memory and Derek pressed forward, tongue flicking out to trace up the wet slit and reach raised flesh. A sharp gasp cut through his haze and he knew he was right. The heat coiling in his stomach grew, climbing into unbearable. Derek groaned and tried to shelter even deeper between spread thighs.

A spasm tore through him and he felt drool trickle down his chin, but it hardly mattered. Derek rolled his tongue over the nub and sucked gently. Fingernails dug into his back and he arched into them, ecstasy seizing hold and leaving him breathless.

More. He worked his lips and flicked his tongue along the nub’s edge. Heat continued to mount and he could swear that he was burning from the inside out, sweat slicking the slide of his limbs and everything overwhelmingly _hot_.

 _More._ Derek tried to bring a hand up, feeling that there was something he was supposed to do with it, but his arm flailed awkwardly and refused to cooperate.

And then a cry cut through the air and suddenly it was all gone. Derek sobbed at the loss and fell forward, reaching out desperately for it to come back.

But all that came were the echoes of shouts and the crack of gunfire.

* * *

Almost every driving law known to man broken and he was _still_ late to the party.

Scott and Malia heard the first gunshot when they were still a few blocks away. “Stiles, faster!” Scott had shouted. Stiles stomped on the gas so hard that his baby lurched in a way that he’d probably be paying for later.

His Jeep fish-tailed around the final corner when the motel came into sight. Muzzle flashes lighted the open doorway of one of the rooms and it was all Stiles could do to slam on the brakes as Scott lunged out of the moving vehicle. He skidded in the gravel before he gained his footing and disappeared into the room. Malia vaulted out of the window, right behind him.

Stiles grabbed his bat – aluminum this time, he was learning dammit – and ran after them.

And then promptly ground to a halt at the doorway. He had only been like, what, five seconds behind them? It’s ridiculous that five seconds was all it took to develop a total shitshow. Because what. The. _Hell_ was going on.

Scott was wrestling on the floor with a naked Kate Argent, a gun grasped dangerously in both of their hands. Derek Hale, also naked and looking to be painfully hard, was sobbing and clawing at bedsheets. Malia was latched onto the back of something with wings. And did he mention there was something with _wings?_

It was tall. Probably a good head taller than him if they were standing next to each other. Not that they ever should because Stiles was pretty damn sure it’d take his head off. Its long feathered legs ended in large, leathery…bird feet? Is that the word for it? Stiles supposed the word for the foot part didn’t matter nearly as much as the word _talons,_ because the large hooks that it had for toes were way more concerning. Massive feathered wings stretched and retracted awkwardly, and Stiles suddenly had the distinct impression that it didn’t know what to do with the werecoyote on its back.

The thing with wings spun around and slammed Malia against the wall at the same time that the crack of a gunshot ripped through the small room. Fueled largely by panic, Stiles surged forward and swung his bat at the firearm. Scott yelped and Kate hissed in pain as he made solid contact, the weapon flying out of their grip with another shot.

The shrill cry of a bird of prey cut through whatever swear Kate was spitting out. Stiles spun towards the thing, bat raised, but faltered when a taloned hand shot forward and grabbed the barrel of his bat. It squeezed and Stiles stared slack-jawed while the aluminum twisted and broke.

“Stiles, get back!” Scott shouted.

Wings beat in the air and Stiles found himself swatted to the ground, wheezing frantically after getting the wind solidly knocked out of him. Taloned feet stepped around him as the bird person stumbled, miraculously missing shredding Stiles’ very human body to pieces.

Malia landed hard on top of him and they both barked in pain. She recovered faster, scrambling back to her feet and likely planning to throw herself at the monster.

But then it was out the door and launched into the air, wings beating loudly and lifting out of sight.

The werecoyote snarled in rage and ran out the room to do god knows what.

“Malia, no!” Stiles gasped, trying to push himself to his feet.

He needn’t have bothered. Scott’s roar, shaking his very core with the magnitude of it, was much more persuasive.

Malia appeared back in the doorway, looking every bit unhappy about it.

“A little help?” Scott barked, still struggling to hold Kate. She had stilled momentarily at his roar, but now racked her claws into his sides with a renewed vigor. With a snarl, Malia joined the fray.

Stiles ran his hands through his hair and took a step back, heart hammering loudly in his ears.

A sob reminded him that there wasn’t just the four of them in the motel room. Because, yeah, an erect Derek was definitely a thing here.

Seriously, what is his life.

Stiles watched Derek kick his legs slowly. It was a weird kick…almost as if he was a little kid trying to relieve the ache of a growing limb.

And he might have watched the way Derek’s cock twitched, leaking precum in small pulses.

He was going to hell. Definitely, absolutely heading to a deep, dark circle of inferno.

Stiles jerked uncomfortably, not knowing what the fuck he was supposed to do. Naked Kate with naked Derek followed by a seriously messed up Derek? It didn’t take a genius to figure out at least some of what had been going down. It probably would take a genius, however, to figure out what the hell to do about it. Hug it out? Talk him down? Do absolutely nothing?

Derek’s cock twitched again and Stiles felt shame curdle his stomach at the same time that his mouth watered in want.

 _Not helping,_ he pled with his libido.

Alright, so definitely no touching. Because apparently he was an asshole and couldn’t be trusted.

“Heeeeeey, Derek,” he tried in his best attempt at imitating Scott’s everything-will-be-alright tone.

If the werewolf even heard him, he made no show of it. Just kept shivering.

Right. A jacket. He should get a jacket.

The crash of caving plaster snapped his attention over to the wrestling trio. Kate’s skin had turned the motley assortment of dark colors that was apparently a werejaguar thing, but giant sections of it had been shredded open to reveal normal looking blood. Which was very red. And dripping. And oh god that was a lot of blood.

The room swam and Stiles legs gave out under him. He caught himself on the edge of the bed and took deep breaths, willing the nausea and faintness to pass. Now definitely wasn’t the time to be passing out.

Stiles almost didn’t realize that shaking the mattress had caused the naked werewolf on it to pause. But he did definitely notice when said werewolf started flailing his limbs in Stiles’ direction.

“Woah, it’s okay,” he awkwardly reached his hand out to catch the dude before he hurt himself.

But instead of steadying himself on Stiles like expected, Derek almost seemed to flop into him. And Stiles felt bad, you know? Cause here’s this proud guy, reduced to flopping around into the nearest teenager.

Stiles brought his other hand up and awkwardly patted Derek’s back. His ridiculously well-toned and stupid back. Life definitely wasn’t fair.

But then Derek surprised him again: he arched into the pat.

Stiles squinted in confusion and stared down at the man in his arms. And, you know, maybe he was just imagining it, but it _really_ seemed as if the dude was trying to get as close as possible.

Maybe he’s just a cuddler?

Another crash of more broken plaster (the bill for this room was going to be so bad, they really better bail before the cops showed up) distracted him and he twisted to check out how Scott and Malia were faring. He had barely turned his head when the sensation of lips and fangs and tongue were pressed up against his neck.

Stiles yelped in shock and flailed backwards, tripping over his own feet and falling flat on his ass. Derek kept his grip and tumbled off of the bed, sprawling onto the floor with him. The werewolf shuddered, then inched closer like an overly needy date.

“Dude!” he squeaked, “What the hell!”

If Derek heard him, he again ignored reason in favor of curling closer.

And, alright, fine, Stiles might own up to totally being down for this _if_ it wasn’t for the whole fact that now _definitely_ wasn’t a good time. Like literally one of the worst times. Right up there with getting it on at a funeral.

“Seriously, dude!” Stiles grabbed Derek by the shoulders and shoved him back, “Stop!”

Derek blinked, but didn’t seem to see him. Drool leaked out of the corner of his mouth, his shoulders shuddered oddly where Stiles held onto them, and…oh. _Oh._

Shit.

Stiles lurched away from Derek as if burned. And he _really_ tried to ignore the terrible twist of guilt he felt when the dude fucking _whined_.

“Scott…,” his voice sounded strange to his own ears.

There was no response, so he turned to where the trio were tearing out carpet. It seemed like Scott and Malia were finally succeeding in pinning Kate down. She snapped her jaw angrily, but all she caught was air. The pair had manhandled Kate onto her belly and Scott straddled her back, adjusting to get a better grip on her wrists. 

“Scott,” he tried again, a little louder. 

The alpha looked up, expression of righteous triumph slipping slowly off as he took in his friend’s distress. His gaze flicked over to Derek, who was writhing once again.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, a slight uptick in his tone giving away his nerves.

“I think he’s been werewolf roofied. Is that a thing? It seems like a thing.”

Scott inhaled sharply and looked back down at Kate, who honest to god _smirked_. “Malia,” he finally said, “Help Stiles get him to Deaton. I’ll keep Kate here until the police show up.”

“What are the cops going to do?” Malia scoffed, “You should just kill her now.”

“We don’t kill people!”

Malia rolled her eyes but didn’t try to argue. “C’mon,” she grumbled, grabbing Derek by the arm and hauling him to his feet. The werewolf couldn’t seem to coordinate his legs, so Malia slung him over her shoulder and walked out of the motel room.

Stiles watched them leave with his jaw hanging open and mind struggling to process just how easy she made that seem.

“Stiles!” Scott barked.

Right. Leaving. He lurched to his feet and scrambled to the door, turning back one last time to ask, “You sure you’ll be okay with her?”

“I’ll be fine,” Scott reassured, “Go.”

When he gets to his Jeep, Derek is already sprawled in the backseat and out cold. He raises an eyebrow in suspicion, but Malia only responds with a blank and slightly indignant, “What?”

Usually he’d try to give some helpful pointers on how people do people things at a time like this, but at the moment he was just glad he wouldn’t have to deal with…whatever was going on while he drove.

And if he can’t stop his panicked litany of oh-my-gods and one rather unmanly yelp when he heard a groan from the backseat…well, that’s no one’s business but his own. And Malia’s. And Derek’s if he remembered any of this.

Stiles thought back to Kate’s smug smirk and winced. If there’s any mercy in this world, he wouldn’t.


	10. The Bogeyman

“I told you already,” Kate’s husky tone echoed over the speakers in the observation room, “I was minding my own business when that teenager jumped me.”

“Say I believe you,” the deputy in the interrogation room leaned forward on his elbows, “That still doesn’t explain why you faked your own death.”

Kate smirked and leaned back in her chair. With a finality that left no room for argument, she drawled, “I’d like my lawyer now,”

Scott could smell the acrid scent of the Sheriff’s unease beside him in the observation room. “We can’t put her in general holding,” the Sheriff said quietly, “not if she’ll tear people apart in a frenzy every full moon.”

Scott couldn’t really do anything other than nod. Stiles’ dad was right. That poor girl in the Preserve looked like she had been shredded to pieces. And with Kate’s distinctive blend of rosemary and rain on dry soil hovering all over the crime scene, it was hard to imagine that it had been anyone other than Kate to have done the carnage. And it _had_ been a full moon when it happened. They still had time until the next one, but…

“I still can’t figure out why the hell you found her with Derek, of all people,” the Sheriff continued in a near silent whisper, “I mean, I get that she set the Hale fire. But I find it hard to believe she was involved with that operation the FBI busted.”

Shrugging helplessly, Scott could only watch as the deputy in the interrogation room got up and left. He didn’t know. He didn’t know why Derek had left the relative safety of his home. Or why they found him drugged in a motel room. Or why Kate had been there too. Or why the bird person had been attacking her. Or _anything_.

“I don’t know,” Scott admitted aloud, “But I think I know someone who might.” Stiles’ physics partner could ignore all the calls she wanted. They were going to find her. And they were going to figure out how the hell she knew where Derek had been.

* * *

Antiseptic and cat piss were the first things to greet Derek as he roused to consciousness.

Sensations came next. Something cold and metallic pressed against his bare back. What felt like a towel was draped across his lap. There was the low hum of electricity nearby, likely a fluorescent bulb.

It felt familiar.

What wasn’t familiar was the pounding headache he had. With a groan, Derek brought the heel of his palm up to his forehead and pressed down in an attempt to alleviate it.

“Stiles!” a feminine voice shouted nearby. Too close, too loud, too piercing. His head throbbed with a sharp pang when she added, “He’s waking up.”

There was a crash of something falling down and the scrabble of sneakers on solid ground. Derek managed to wrangle one eye partway open in time to see a familiar teenager come close. Stiles’ hands hovered awkwardly in the air, twitching as if he wanted to touch something but didn’t know what. The scent of anxiety flooded the space around him and Derek had to fight back a grimace when it did weird things to his headache.

“Dude!” Stiles gasped, “Are you alright? You’re not still drugged up and wanting to paw everything in sight, are you?”

A vague feeling tugged at Derek’s memory, but it was foggy and hard to grasp. What was easier to remember was that he had been on this metal table before. Derek moved to push himself up, only to be surprised at how rubber-limbed he felt. It was only with a conscious force of will that he managed to get himself into a sitting positon on the examination table.

Stiles eyed him warily, but Derek ignored him in favor of taking stock of his surroundings.

Malia was there, looking decidedly less harried than the teenage boy that was standing way too close. The vet was also present, his lips pressed together in a tight line but otherwise expressionless. “How do you feel?” the vet asked, his tone aiming a bit too obviously for calm and soothing.

Like his head was going to explode and disoriented as fuck. How the hell did he get here? He remembered going with Jeremy. Waiting for him to buy some supplies. A bit of filming. And… a tremor ran down his spine. Petrichor and rosemary.

He could still smell a bit of it lingering about, as if he was carrying it on his skin. Swallowing hard, Derek scrubbed an alarmingly shaky hand across his face.

Derek belated realized that they were waiting for him to say something. Stiles was practically thrumming with barely constrained energy. “Fine,” he managed to rasp out, surprised with how difficult it was to form the word.

The vet… Deaton? Yeah, Deaton. His lips twitched slightly before he said, “You were poisoned with a rather…peculiar strain of wolfsbane. Is there any chance you know the name of the strain?”

 _Have you ever tried Fischer Monkshood on him?_ The memory felt like a physical stab. Derek felt a muscle in his face twitch oddly and something that felt dangerously close to fear tickled the back of his mind. He pushed the feeling aside and gritted out, “Fish…” Why the hell was it so difficult to speak? “Fisher,” he tried again with a croak, “Fisher Monkshood.”

Derek could hear the vet’s teeth grit against each other.

“I know that look,” Stiles said slowly, the heavy scent of dread wafting from him as he stared at Deaton, “That’s not a good look.”

“That particular strain,” Deaton spoke with a practiced calm, “can only be burned out with its own ashes.”

Derek figured as much. The fancier named wolfsbanes all seemed to have that in common. It had been a major pain in the ass, back when hunters would come stalking through the Preserve. Get shot with a normal wolfsbane bullet and you could burn it out without ever even known the strain. But get shot by a version of wolfsbane with a fancy ‘monkshood’ title? He had nearly lost an aunt that way. The whole pack had to be called in to go on a hunt for the terrifyingly specific bullets.

“I don’t suppose,” he managed to wheeze, “you happen to have it laying around?”

“I’m afraid not,” was Deaton’s answer.

Derek nodded, not really having expected anything different. And then instantly regretted the gesture when his headache flared up with an agonizing spike.

“It does seem that you can mitigate the worst of its affects by avoiding physical contact,” Deaton offered in what was probably meant as reassurance. Foggy memories pulled at him again, but Derek pushed them back down. He had the distinct impression that he’d regret dredging them up to the surface.

“We’ll just get it from Kate then,” Malia said loudly. Too loudly. Derek winced and tried to resist the urge to rub his temple, managing to stop his hand half-way. 

Stiles raised his arm in Malia’s direction and jabbed his finger at her. “That,” he announced, “That is a great idea. And now you,” he jerked that same, long finger at Derek, “You need to explain what the hell you were doing with Kate Argent. _And_ the bird person.” He squinted suspiciously, “You do realize this is the _second_ time you were with the bird person, right?” He took a step forward, crowding much too close in Derek’s space, “Got anything you want to get off your chest?”

“Maybe you didn’t notice,” Derek gritted out, “that I was drugged both times.”

“That wasn’t an answer,” Stiles countered, ever persistent. “Why weren’t you at Scott’s?”

Derek was so done with this. With an effort that was frankly concerning, he swung his legs over the side of the table and slid off. The towel they had draped over him for modesty fell to the floor and Stiles leapt back with a startled squawk. Malia rolled her eyes and grabbed a pair of sweatpants that were draped over a chair, tossing them easily to Derek.

Ignoring the way that the room spun when he bent over to pull them on was one thing. Trying to ignore the way the fabric scratched harshly against his skin was another story. Everything was way too sensitive and his skin felt much too tight and raw. If it wasn’t for the relieved hiss from Stiles when he managed to get them on, Derek would have been tempted to take them back off.

“I would strongly urge you to find the strain as soon as possible,” Deaton said softly into the awkward silence, “While it is nonlethal, it can be quite dangerous to live with its effects.”

Nodding wordlessly, Derek accepted a long-sleeved shirt from Malia and tugged it on. Stiles eyed him strangely, eyes narrowed in some kind of indecipherable regard.

“Okay,” Stiles spoke with finality, “Sheriff’s station first. Wolfsbane cure second. _Then_ you can explain what happened.”

Derek didn’t have it in him to argue. Not when it felt like just about every inch of his skin was flaring up with an uncomfortable itch. So he settled with a short nod and tried his best to breathe through his nose, following wordlessly as Stiles led the way out of the vet clinic.

* * *

Finding Stiles’ physics partner, as it turned out, ended up being incredibly easy. The girl was hovering just outside of the Sheriff’s station. When she spotted him, Scott heard her quick intake of breath and a telling uptick in her heartrate.

He approached her slowly, listening to the way her heart thumped louder and louder with each step he took. To her credit, she planted her feet and held her ground as he advanced. Scott stopped only when he was close enough to feel her breath tickle his cheek. “How did you know?” he asked quietly.

She licked her lips and flitted her gaze around the station’s parking lot. “I’ll tell you,” she said just as quietly, “On one condition.”

Scott lifted his eyebrows in question, waiting her out.

The girl pinched her lips together, glanced around the parking lot one more time, then steeled her spine with a noticeable force of will. “Promise me,” she met his scrutiny with fire in her eyes, “Promise that you’ll protect me.”

It wasn’t what he had expected. Scott blinked rapidly in surprise and asked before he could think better of it, “From what?”

She looked at him as if he was stupid. “You’re kidding, right? Don’t you talk to your pack?”

As if on cue, Scott heard the roar of the Jeep approaching. It squealed to a halt right in front of them just as the driver side door flung open. Stiles nearly fell in his haste to climb out and point at the girl. _“You!”_ he exclaimed, stumbling forward and jabbing his finger in the air, “Who the hell are you and how did you know where Derek was? Is your name even Celeste? What is that, some weird fake name? I should have known; who names their kid _Celeste?_ That’s gotta be the fakest fake name ever.”

Malia climbed more gracefully out of the passenger seat, looking significantly less perturbed. But Scott could barely pay attention to either of his two friends because _right there_. Derek was sliding carefully out of the back, looking like he was concentrating more on the effort of landing on his feet than anything happening around him. Scott didn’t realize he was carrying an extra weight on his shoulders until he saw the other werewolf safe and sound. Maybe looking a little worse for wear, but _safe_. Releasing a relieved sigh, Scott finally turned back to the situation at hand.

Stiles’ physics partner was studying the group critically and Scott got the distinct impression that she was reconsidering her game plan. Before she could back out, he pressed, “Whatever trouble you’re in, we can help.” She flicked her scrutiny back to him in time to catch his eyes burning red, “I promise.”

The girl’s expression pinched, but after a moment she nodded slowly. “Alright,” she said carefully. Turning a glare on Stiles, she added, “And my name is actually Celeste.”

Stiles looked a moment away from snapping back with something counter-productive, so Scott cut in quickly, “We believe you.” He threw Stiles a wide-eyed look that he hoped his best friend would interpret correctly as _Dude! Stop!_

“Good,” the girl – Celeste – licked her lips again, her nervous energy coming back in full force, “I’m the attendant of the harpy you’ve been tracking.”

Scott tried to mask his surprise. He _really_ did. But judging from the way her expression hardened, she hadn’t missed it.

“That’s right,” Stiles put up a valiant effort at fronting, “The harpy. That we’ve been tracking.”

Celeste’s face screwed up in disbelief, “You seriously didn’t know?” She looked a moment away from deciding to leave again. But she settled with releasing a pained sigh and pinching the bridge of her nose, “How much _do_ you know?”

“Not much,” Scott admitted, figuring honesty was better than posturing.

“Do you at least have experience with harpies?” There was no mistaking her raw and desperate hope.

“We’ve fought berserkers,” Malia offered at the same time that Stiles chimed in with, “You mean the nasty-ass, Greek bird ladies?”

This wasn’t going well at all. Scott could smell Celeste’s pained frustration, along with something that was dangerously close to fear. He struggled to come up with something – _anything_ – that he could say to salvage this. But it was, to his surprise, Derek’s soft voice that cut into the quickly devolving situation, “They feed on the wicked.”

Stiles spun on him at the same time that Celeste breathed a tentatively relieved sigh. “Seriously?” Stiles sputtered, “You’re telling me you knew this whole time?”

If looks could kill, then the scathing glare Derek leveled at Stiles would be a good contender. “No, Stiles,” he gritted out, “Did you forget the part where I was _drugged_ both times?”

It wasn’t until Derek mentioned it that Scott realized what the sickly sweet scent lingering about was. Stiles snapped back some kind of rejoinder, but Scott was more focused on the sweat clinging to Derek, soaking through his borrowed clothes. The slight tremor that ran through his hands. The way his words were coming out strained and almost breathless.

“You’re still drugged,” he wondered aloud, horror growing in the pit of his stomach.

Derek’s attention snapped to him with a fierce glare, as if daring him to do something about it. But Scott was more concerned with the way Derek’s pupils were blown wide, almost engulfing the thin strip of hazel around them.

“Yeah, about that,” Stiles fidgeted uncomfortably, “We kind of need whatever was used on him.”

Something hard and cold settled in him. Stiles seemed to sense the change in mood, stilling his fidgeting to watch his friend carefully. “Scott?” he asked after a long moment.

“Take Celeste back to my place,” he ordered, mentally counting to ten in an effort to bite down on the growing desire to hurt someone. “We can finish talking there.”

“No,” she grabbed his arm just as he was about to head back inside the station. “You promised me,” she insisted, “You protect me if I tell you what I know.”

“Stiles and Malia can protect you too.”

“You’re not getting it,” she hissed in obvious frustration, “You’re a true alpha. Even a harpy will have trouble against a true alpha. Those two, however, don’t stand a chance.”

A low growl rumbled through Malia, but Stiles stepped forward with a placating, “Hey, no worries. Me and Malia can fetch the frankly disturbing strain of wolfsbane, and you can take Celeste back to your place. Then Derek can be grouchy without getting to blame drugs and everybody’s happy.”

It didn’t sound like a good plan. Especially when a gust of wind sent an all too obvious shiver through Derek.

But Celeste was staring up at him expectantly. And this was the first break they’ve caught since people had started disappearing weeks ago.

Reluctantly, he nodded.

* * *

“Just a few minutes, Dad.”

The Sheriff grimaced, “I don’t want you anywhere near that woman.”

“Okay, yes,” Stiles held his clasped hands out in front of him, index fingers extended in acknowledgement of his dad’s point, “Usually I’m one hundred percent on board with that plan. But Derek here,” he gestured to the werewolf standing awkwardly behind him, trying his best to look like a breeze wouldn’t knock him over, “really, _really_ needs something she has.”

“Well why can’t _he_ talk to her? Why you?”

“Seriously, Dad?” Stiles gave his father his best unimpressed look, _“Seriously?”_

“I could talk to her,” Malia offered, “She doesn’t even have berserkers anymore. I don’t get what the big deal is.”

Stiles held a finger up as if to ward her off, “Which is exactly why you’re _not_ going to talk to her.”

Even without supernatural hearing, Stiles was still able to catch her grumbled _I don’t get it._ Which, again, was the whole point. As far as Stiles was concerned, the less time Malia spent around sociopaths, the better. She was still learning how to human.

As soon as his dad’s face pinched in that pained expression he makes, Stiles knew he had won.

“You get _five_ minutes. She already lawyered up,” his dad warned, “So if anyone catches you in there, I don’t know anything about it.”

Stiles didn’t wait a moment longer, he darted past his dad and practically flew into the interrogation room.

“Well look what the cat dragged in,” Kate mocked, “Or was it the dog this time?” She glanced at the two-way mirror, looking every bit like she was enjoying her own dumb joke way too much. “Maybe a mutt?”

“You can cut the crap,” Stiles snatched the chair across from her and sat down, “Where’s the wolfsbane?”

Her smile was the picture of feigned innocence, “The flower? You didn’t come all this way to talk about gardening, did you?”

“I’m going to make this simple for you,” his tone dropped dangerously, “If you don’t tell us where you have your weird, roofie wolfsbane hidden away, then you’ll be going in general lockup. And I don’t think I need to tell you what’ll happen when that ‘time of the month’ comes around.”

Kate cocked an eyebrow, but otherwise looked unimpressed, “You don’t honestly think that scares me, do you?”

He had kinda been hoping it would. 

“Oookay,” he stalled, trying to think of a different angle. Drumming his fingers against the table and thinking quick, he tried, “Well what about that harpy gunning after you? That scare you?”

Her smirk faltered. It was just for a split second, but Stiles sure as hell didn’t miss it. And he’d be damned if he didn’t push for the advantage. “Supernatural bogeyman, huh?” he pressed, opting for full-on bullshitting, “Must suck. Having to answer for all the shit you’ve done. That thing seems pretty tough, too. Bet it could rip through you like tissue paper.”

By the end, her smirk had dropped and she was nothing but stony-faced. Stiles offered his own, small smirk, “They hunt wicked people right? The way I see it, you’re as wicked as they come. But, you know,” he leaned forward and whispered, “maybe you could do a good thing for once. Give us some of that shitty wolfsbane. Fix just one of your fuckups. What’s it lawyers say? I’ll talk to the judge on your behalf?”

Rolling her eyes, Kate snorted, “Well aren’t you the clever one. But have you ever considered…” She paused long enough to lean forward as well and whispered, “that you’re wicked too?” Stiles couldn’t stop his flinch, and Kate smiled like a cat that got the canary. “Maybe you should consider that,” she purred, “before you go looking for your harpy.”

Stiles ground his teeth together and glared at her for what felt like a long, heavy moment. Too long, apparently, since their stare down was interrupted by a sharp series of raps on the two-way mirror.

His time was up. And he had jack shit.

“I’m going to find it,” he threatened, “And the harpy’s going to find you. And then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

True to form, Kate leaned back and grinned, “Sure thing, cutie.”

* * *

When they finally pulled into Scott’s driveway, Derek had to take a moment to catch his breath before he could climb out. Stiles, evidently, had felt the need to speed through turns and gun it when lights turned green. Which were both things that _really_ didn’t sit well with him right about now.

Once he managed to reorient himself – up was up, down was down, etc – he popped open the Jeep’s door and slowly levelled himself to the ground. Malia and Stiles were already at the front door by the time he managed his first step. And, by the time he had made it to the entrance himself, it was only to find that Stiles had already taken it upon himself to back the so called Celeste into a corner.

“What do you know?” he demanded, his posture radiating challenge.

“Stiles,” Scott said tiredly, “Stop it.”

Derek could take a guess. From what he knew, harpies weren’t shapeshifters. And, to survive in an increasingly human-friendly world, supernaturals like that often needed human assistance. The burden on the human, however, could be quite steep. And if the hollows under Celeste’s eyes were any indication, she’d been paying it for a long while.

“It had been so exciting, in the start,” she defended. At first Derek thought she was speaking without preamble, but from the way Scott shoulders dropped – as if the weight of the world was falling on them – it seemed it was more of a continuation of a conversation.

“You helped kill people,” Scott’s voice was barely a whisper.

“No,” she shook her head sharply, “I only ever cleaned up the bodies. She…eats the souls? I guess? I don’t really know. But she feeds on that, and then leaves the body behind. Can’t really leave bodies lying around, so…” At Scott’s gutted expression, she quickly added, “But I never killed anyone.”

A heavy silence fell between the two, interrupted by Malia. “So what’s the problem?” Scott shot her a sharp look and Stiles winced.

“We don’t dispose of dead bodies, Malia,” Stiles tried.

She rolled her eyes before leaving the interrogation in favor of the kitchen. “Waste of meat,” she grumbled before Derek heard the fridge pop open.

“I just…” Celeste seemed to struggle for words, before settling on, “She’s thousands of years old. She was there for the rise and fall of Rome. The birth of Christianity. The fall of Constantinople. The Crusades and the Middle Ages. I couldn’t resist; not as a self-respecting historian. Please understand. I just couldn’t… hiding a few dead bodies seemed like a small price to pay.”

“Well how do we stop it, Miss Historian,” Stiles sneered.

Celeste shot a glare back. “You _don’t,_ ” she seethed, “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell your friend here.” She waved a hand in Scott’s direction before complaining, “It’s why I put up with going back to high school, as god-awful as that’s been. I heard that there was a true alpha in Beacon Hills. A teenager, still in high school.” When both Scott and Stiles still seemed unlikely to warm up to her plight, she turned to Derek and beseeched, “I need out. I can’t keep going like this.”

Derek wasn’t too sure why she had zeroed in on him with such a desperation. Maybe because he looked less accusatory and more exhausted. But, truth be told, he was finding it a bit hard to care about anything other than his splitting headache. The conversation steered away from him again when Stiles rushed forward and demanded, “And how are we supposed to trust you, huh?”

“I can take you to her,” she gritted out, “If that’s what you need to hear.”

Stiles squinted in suspicion. “Nah,” he muttered after a long moment, “Run us into another trap? I don’t think so. But you know what you can do? How about _you_ go back to your feathered master and deliver a message.” He glanced Derek’s way before demanding, “Tell bird freak that we’ll get her the bitch in lockup. Deliver Kate up with a bow and everything, _if_ it gets us her wolfsbane stash. Do that, and then _maybe_ we’ll talk about protecting your ass.”

Derek watched Scott while Stiles laid out his deal: the alpha went from confusion to horror in a dizzying array of emotions. “Stiles!” he finally gasped, “I promised to protect her.”

“And you will,” Stiles placated smoothly, “ _After_ she’s proved that she can be trusted.”

Whatever Scott was about to say, Derek inadvertently interrupted it. The room swam on him – _for no good reason, dammit_ – and Derek wound up staggering forward before he managed to grab onto a sofa. The trio paused to stare at him, regard ranging from curiosity to concern. He threw them his best glare in return, daring them to call him out on it.

Scott sighed. “Celeste,” he spoke quietly, “You can stay with us until we figure this out. Okay? And Stiles, we’ll figure this out our own way. No sending monsters to torture monsters.”

Stiles had the grace to seem at least marginally ashamed. Not that Derek thought he needed to. Derek, for one, wouldn’t mind seeing Kate ripped to shreds by a harpy. Not even a little bit.

“We’ll all stay here,” Scott continued, “We’ll be stronger together. Celeste, you can have the guest room with Malia. Derek and Stiles can take the living room. We can get Mason and Liam to check the motel to see if any of the wolfsbane’s there. And Lydia and Kira can watch the station to make sure nothing happens there. Everyone okay with that?”

After a long moment of pained silence, Stiles sighed, “Yeah…yeah you’re right.”

“Good,” Scott breathed in relief. Evidently exhausted, he turned and headed up the stairs. Celeste gave them a quick glance before following hot on his heels.

Left alone in the living room, Stiles flashed a grin of false bravado, “Well, looks like it’s just you and me, big guy.” He raised his hand to slap Derek on the back, only to stop it mid-air and snatch it back so quickly that it looked like he was about to hurt himself. Derek rose one judgmental eyebrow, to which Stiles whined, “Hey, not my fault you bring no-touch to a whole new level.”

Derek couldn’t think of a witty response, so he settled for rolling his eyes. Which was slightly undermined when he stumbled on his way to the couch. Stiles, to his credit, didn’t take the opportunity to make a jab.

They sat in what even Derek had to acknowledge was awkward silence. The crunch and ring of Malia eating dry cereal could be heard from the kitchen. The springs in the sofa chair Stiles sat in squeaked every so often with his shifting. He could even hear Scott calling his young packmates to disseminate his orders. But other than that, there was very little else to focus on. And focusing on something other than the terrible itch crawling across his skin would be _great_ right about now.

It was almost a relief when Stiles broke the silence. Almost. “Soooo,” he dragged out, “Planning on sharing why you ran off?”

Derek ignored him in favor of snatching Scott’s copy of _Heart of Darkness_ , which was still laying on the table. Right where he left it.

“Aw, c’mon, man. Please? Anything?” Derek continued to ignore him and flipped to the section he had left off at. He got through a paragraph before Stiles threatened, “I’m just going to keep asking, you know? All night long. Gonna be a loooong night of the same question over and over and over again.”

Derek had managed a page, manfully ignoring Stiles’ continued goading. And another page, pretending not to hear the insistent begging. It took five pages before it got to the point where even Derek couldn’t ignore it. Pulling the book up higher, he gritted out, “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

It at least got Stiles to shut up. Didn’t seem to be the answer he had wanted, considering the odd spike of what smelt like confusion. But it was at least a reprieve.

“In what universe is holing up with Kate a good idea?”

Not a very long reprieve, it would seem.

“Stiles,” he snapped. The teenager leaned forward expectantly, waiting for whatever secrets or truths he seemed to think Derek held. Derek humored him, leaning in close as well. Lifting his brows, he said slowly, “Shut. Up.”

Stiles’ expression dropped in frustration. “Fine,” he grumbled, “Be an ass.” Leaning back in his sofa chair, the teen yanked out his phone and stabbed its screen furiously with a long finger.

Resisting the urge to smirk, Derek leaned back in his own seat and returned to reading.

Several pages later, he heard Stiles mutter to himself, “Thought harpies were supposed to just be nasty bird ladies…”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read,” Derek offered, never taking his eyes off the book. He was, however, aware that he was being glared at.

“Says the guy who spends all day reading,” was the muttered comeback. It was weak enough that Derek didn’t deign it with a response. And, if the particularly furious tap to the cell phone’s screen was any indication, Stiles didn’t think it was a particularly good comeback either.

Silence settled between them again. But, as Derek continued to the book’s conclusion, he had to admit that it was not nearly as awkward as it had been. _Small mercies,_ he thought. It was easier to think of that, at least, than it was to think of the one very large mercy this pack of teenagers had offered him.

Despite himself, he shivered. A pulse of heat chased it. He gripped the pages harder. Stiles looked up from his phone. A tremor ripped the page he was flipping. The book fell. The room swam. Darkness ebbed around the edge of his vision.

Finally giving up on it, Derek sank into the couch and shut his eyes. Coaxing himself with the thought that he could kill Stiles if the teen did anything to him while he slept, Derek gave in and let exhaustion take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who says nonlethal drugs should work their way out of your system, I'm going to wave my hands in the air and say _magic_.


End file.
